Grub
by Plaidi
Summary: It was too addictive, his life-long hobby: attempting, though with majority percentile of utter failure, to win Eowyn's heart. 'Tis why he abandoned his dark work under Saruman at the last decent moment. But the stain of darkness is hard to rub out...
1. Cabal

"**Grub"**

Pairing: Gríowyn. (Gríma/Éowyn)

Genre(s): romance/action.

Universe: Movie-verse.

Rated: M. (There's an ambrosia of everything in here somewhere. ;D)

Disclaimer: J.R.R Tolkien is the _man_. ...you know. The man that you'd want to talk to regarding the ownership of these characters.

Note: Although it may seem it at first, this is _not_ a "making Gríma seem like a creeper-stalker man" fiction. It _will_ get better. (extends pinky) I promise.

(1)

'Pitiful, pale worm.'

This was the first thought of fair Éowyn, whose porcelain-skinned hand held a twig with which she prodded gently at a curious insect nestled in the dirt before her. Her naturally dark eyelashes nearly kissed her well-molded cheekbones while she observed the attempted escape of the larva. Those lush, pink lips curved at the corners in a serene smile.

Such a beautiful expression did not last long. Her thoughts turned to the very reason as to why she sat there in the plush, green grass, playing in the soil; to escape the stark, cold hallways of Meduseld. To escape those luminescent, blue orbs that recorded her every breath from the shadows. Merely for that small ounce of solace that the outdoors granted her, knowing that he wasn't stalking her in the darkness, undressing her with his eyes--

A shiver wracked her full frame at the idea of the pleasures Wormtongue must receive from frightening her so. Her icy stare focused on the albino worm that had managed to burrow its thick body halfway beneath the moist peat.

"In order to keep your life, you must burrow deeper and deeper beneath this weighted-down soil. Does it not smother you? Do you ever want to return to the surface for a breath of pure air?" she interrogated, her eyes soft to the grub.

Her mind once more took hold, drowning her in thought. She knew of Gríma's oily tongue and that he had the heart of a betrayer. She could smell the deceit wafting from his dirty, warm-looking robes.

Éowyn straightened suddenly, her brow furrowed. "_Warm-looking_?"

The Shieldmaiden scoffed. She gathered herself, stood from her company of the grub and began up the path to the cool interior of Meduseld. Night drew soon nearer by the days, and the sun was nearly below the horizon at the time. She would not want to cause worry to her family for not being present when the sunlight was spent.

Her hair billowed behind her with a dusken breeze, her mind in heated reprimand of its thoughts on the slinky adviser's cloak.

"Honestly... I would rather be served unarmored as a meal to a feral warg than have such opinions." she announced to no one in particular of her previous thought, save herself, as she had to reassure her loathing for the slimy, grey-skinned--

"Counselor!"

The boom of Éomer's voice in the vacant hall had caused her to visibly jump. She slid to the side, hiding herself behind a graciously wide pillar near the entrance. Her gaze was wary as she peered out from her nook. She could see that her uncle's right-hand man was standing a little past the dais, his sky blue orbs seeming to be staring directly at her, although she knew that there was little chance that he could have seen her. Her brother soon joined the scene, his heavy armor rattling subtly with every step he took towards the untrusted counselman.

"Why do you stand idly by when you are to be searching the archives under Théoden King's order?" her elder brother growled at the greasy executive.

"I was making way to the East Hall, as the desired record was not to be found in the West." was Wormtongue's reply, a sprinkle of hesitance among his carefully chosen words.

Éowyn allowed herself to feel prideful behind her disgust. She stepped out from behind the pillar, making it look like she had waltzed into the hall at the very moment that the men's confrontation had begun to intensify.

She sent a brief smile her brother's way, holding her head high while skirting past Gríma. She could almost feel the chilled aura surrounding him follow her on her way to her chamber.

* * *

The hall was dark. Too dark. An unnatural dark.

A feeling of ice lodged deep in her belly caused her to shiver as she groped about in the dark for a wall to guide her. 'What is this darkness? There were pairs of torches burning brightly but an hour ago down the whole of this hall!' she thought incredulously.

Behind her, the sound of a weighted cloak swooshing around hurried footsteps echoed in the silence. Said steps were, from what she could tell, catching up with her at a formidable pace. A great wave of unease was beginning to take over her.

She bet herself that it was the Wormtongue, scurrying after her with his excuse of looking for the desired scrolls in the East Hall, but she knew that he wanted any kind of pass to haunt her steps.

She hastened, and, listening fervently, she knew that her presumed pursuer was as well. Her icy gaze narrowed so to allow any type of details to become detectable in the heavy dark. Ahead she could see the outline of what appeared to be a man.

"Gamling?" she called, striding forward. "Gamling, please."

She was nearly able to reach out and touch the unnamed shape before her in the dark when suddenly a hand shot forth from behind her to cover her mouth while another pulled her back by the waist. Her heart pounded fiercely within her chest. A scream built up inside of her throat; she inhaled deeply to prepare, but she was silenced sharply.

"Dare you not breath a word, my Lady. So much as a murmur from your downy lips may relieve you of the privilege." The voice was nearly inaudible, however hot in her ear.

Éowyn's restrained lungs became lax; the hand slowly, reluctantly even, lifted from her lower jaw along with the hand at her abdomen. The tingling warmth of the informant dissipated, the cool of the slimy, stone wall replacing it. Éowyn could sense the master of the whispered voice creeping closer to the hulking black mass ahead. Closing her eyes to attune herself to the dark, she was able to hear _all_.

The faint 'pat' of lamb-skin boots against smooth, stone floors, the frantic breathing that belonged to the owner of the creeping lamb-skin boots, the stealthy release of a dagger from its hilt, the rugged snorting of a mid-sized being; the sounds painted a picture in the princess's mind that the lightless area could not offer. She silenced her own inhalations even further, making it seem like she had vanished on the spot.

At once, the picture of the scene faded from her train of thought when the sounds stopped suddenly. Swallowing to moisten her throat, she gripped the wall.

"G-Gamling...?" she whispered.

Her utterance was drowned out almost immediately by the panicked war-cry of a man and the tilling of a silver bell. A scuffle; thick material sliding along the floor; a heavy mass crumpling against stone; strangling silence.

Éowyn was sure that her body was numb. She forced her eyes open, and at that moment, none other than Éomer burst onto the scene, brightly crackling torch in hand.

"Éowyn! What is this racket?!" he demanded, surveying the area. The torch that he raised revealed all.

Sprawled on the floor was a horrific creature, one of large stature, and seemingly one of fable. The General crept closer, seeing that the monstrosity made no move of alert. Placing the light to level of his eyes in order to see, his brows rose in disgust.

The beast's body was longer than a Man's with a far more muscular build, drowned in leather armors. The hands and feet were also eerily similar to a man's, only broader with large talons at the tips of each digit. However, over the hulking mystery beast's shoulders sat the head of an orc, disfigured from torture, branding and whips. Sparse patches of hair grew from the green-tinted scalp, stringy, dark. The dried, cracked lips were peeled back to reveal needle-like, jagged teeth of a dark coloration, and the monstrosity's golden eyes stared dull with death.

"Such an abhorrence..." Éomer muttered, his mane of golden waves shaking with his head in disdain. He turned then to his sister, who remained plastered against the wall. "Are you harmed, my sister?"

"No... I am well." she replied calmly, looking at the patchwork corpse upon the floor. Her steely grey eyes examined the scene, looking for an extra body which might belong to her savior. She spied none, much to her disappointment. Yet as she turned to alert a fellow court-goer of the event that had just transpired, a small movement caught her attention.

A pale hand twitched a finger from beneath the mystery beast. The appendage was easily recognizable. Suddenly, the hand fisted and forth from beneath the muscular beast came Gríma Wormtongue.

"Counselor!" she gasped, kneeling by his side. Normally she would have been more than ecstatic to see the grey-skinned liar buried beneath the weight of corpses, hopefully with him in the same condition, but the moment was not nearly appropriate. She knew.

"Éowyn, stand by the Worm," Éomer instructed of her. "I will alert the King of this event." He walked in a hastened manner once she had given him a nod of consent. His torch remained hung in a grasp nailed to the wall, allowing the maiden to keep a better eye on her charge.

The blond shifted closer to the corpse, her brows furrowing due to the foul odor wafting from it's hulking body, in an attempt to roll it off of the adviser, but her wrist was grabbed. She peered curiously at the sable haired man, who's piercing blue eyes pleaded her not to.

"I am offering my aid to you, Worm, and you do not take this? I have thoughts that would lead me to think of this moment as a sick dream of yours." she snapped, her stare fierce.

Gríma shook his head, licking his lips hesitantly. "Oh, my Lady, do not doubt that I would greatly cherish your aid more than all of the gold in Gondor." he answered, his tone dripping with sexual longing. Of course the greasy guru would think of the perverse side of the phrase. However, rarely had he done anything to refuse the princess, especially when she had offered her help. He released her wrist, but held up his hands as if to tell her, 'Stop, don't.'

He managed to squirm out from beneath the behemoth, wrapping his cloak around his body quickly. Although the fabric stunk of oversized orc, he bore it. He could not let her see him grovel. She already thought him weak; he could not bear it if she scorned him again. Not this day.

Éowyn stood, standing against the wall, her eyes watching his every move.

Gríma lifted himself to his feet, using the opposite wall for support. His teeth dug into his lower lip, and a cold sweat glistened across his line-creased forehead in the glow of the fire. His inner thigh burned; five inches of cold, Mordorian steel cutting deeper into his near-white flesh.

"You tremble." she spoke, her voice strong however still shaken from the attack. "From the adrenaline of your," she paused, seeming to have difficulty speaking the word, "--_noble_ act?"

"My lady, I tremble for no act. Merely your golden breath sends shivers down this creature's body." he replied softly.

"Spare me your twisted words! I have no desire to hear your voice speak of me in such a manner." She pushed from the wall, approaching in a dangerous way. "You will keep your poisoned thoughts within the barrier of what mind you may have. Poison me not, for I will not succumb."

His eyes shifted, darting about for a moment like he was guilty of a crime. His grey lips were licked once, twice.

"Although..." Éowyn glanced from the corner of her steely silver orbs at the fallen mass, the black blood that drained from its neck wound reflecting the flickering flame that hung on the wall. She straightened herself, stepping an inch closer to the adviser. "I will acknowledge that you have kept my life. Expect no thanks from me, but--" She swallowed briefly, finishing her oath. She had to uphold the honor of her family name, and to do that, she must act honorably toward the one who spared her life.

"--But I will allow you to call on me. Once. I am... in... _your debt_."

The expression of worried guilt melted into one of wonder, then to smug assurance, which flashed into watered-down look of acceptance. As best that he could, he knelt before her, wincing when the knife threatened to kiss his bone. His lips parted to speak, his hands lifted in a manner suggesting that plenty of gesturing was about to take place.

"Counselor!" Once more did Éomer's voice ring, interrupting ever more. "Théoden King is aware of this intruder and sends word to the guard. We will now be stationed around the city, beginning this night." His heavy brows overshadowed the anger-filled orbs that were his eyes. He leaned in close to Wormtongue, his hateful breath burning on the pale man's ear.

"Because I am farther from my sister's side this night and beyond does not grant her to you. I will be watching you." Éomer righted himself, taking the blond woman's wrist gently. "Come, my sister. You must recount your tale of bravery to Théoden King and the guard!"

A sheepish grin overtook her lush lips. She had not slain the orc-creature. Her dagger remained at her side, unsoiled. Yet she knew that she couldn't give credit to the one who had _truly_ slit the horror's throat, as Éomer and all others who attended the court would laugh at the very thought.

Walking beside her brother, she closed her eyes. Willing herself, she managed a single, unclouded thought before she entered the booming hall, filled with cheers and congratulations of her success.

'I thank you this once, Worm. Just this once.'

* * *

In the moist, dim confines of his quarters, Gríma bled. His thigh quivered around the thin blade, and the fine trails of deep crimson blood spidered out around the wound, sliding down his calf. His forehead dripped with a cold sweat.

'My Lady... The price of your life is worth more than a Mordorian buttering knife in my thigh, no. Should you have been truly avenged, I would be dead thrice over for the harm that I have done.' he mused to himself.

He brushed his heavy cloak aside, the weight nearly bringing him to his knees. In his exhausted annoyance, he stripped himself of it, revealing his ornate, dark overclothing and thin leggings.

The wall was cool behind his fevered body, his lungs heaving while he wrapped his hands around the blade of the dagger. His lower lip was bitten, alongside a sharp intake of breath before the blade was jerked forward.

Gríma, son of Gálmód, did not know from what depth of his bowels the cry bubbled from, but it was an unknown one. His shriek of pain echoed briefly across the barren walls of his corner in Meduseld; he scoffed at himself as the remaining two inches of the blade slowly slid from their raw wound casing.

"Perhaps a nearby pack of wargs will come to investigate, believing that the cry came from their young," he sneered to no one in particular.

He slumped to the ground, his lambskin boots smearing blood along the stone floor. He rested his head back against the smooth-stone wall, his browless eyes closed and dark around the lids. A knock on his door opened his weary, luminescent blue orbs.

"...I have been sent to inform you that your place is requested at the feast this night, Lord Counselor."

He knew that voice-- No mere handmaid could sound so majestic, so flawless, so _golden_. It was she who came, she... the White Lady. Swallowing to wet his screaming throat, he managed to make a noise, though not one of coherence. All that could escape his moistless, grey lips were gasps for air. He had forgotten; the Mordorian daggers were not only a gift from Saruman made my the most grisly of orc smithies, but their tips carried poisons that could melt the heart of even the most fearsome dragon.

"Lord Counselor, if you will not attend, the least that I demand is an answer. I will not be ignored." Éowyn was beginning to become restless behind the heavy wooden door. In the dim hall, she crossed her arms and leaned on one hip.

"M... My L-Lady..." he finally choked out.

"You speak at last. Tell me your answer, Worm." Her tone was no longer patient. It was against the unspoken law of women not to enter a man's quarters without being told to do so, or further invited. However, she was the White Lady of Rohan. She was higher up in class than some greasy scribe who flattered her uncle with his dark words. Her hands unfolded to press against the soothing, worn surface of the wooden door. She could feel him behind it, which willed her to push it inward, in toward the dim light.

Her heart caught in her throat at the sight; the quite literal white-skinned man she so loathed sitting against the dark stone walls of his quarters, his darkly circled eyes without light in them. She observed the blood that glittered from the lights of merriment that poured from the hall behind her, tracing it to his leg. She knew that she would now have to owe him two favors; one for saving her life from the orc-creature, a second for nearly _giving_ his life in the process.

Éowyn knelt beside him, touching his forehead. She knew not why she sought to aid this sad creature, but she was. She felt the clammy skin of his forehead, taking his chin in her fingers firmly.

"Tell me what ails you." she commanded quietly. She did not want the hall to hear and fuss.

"Dagger..." he choked. "Poison... in the tip..."

Nodding, she traced the blood trail to the slit in his upper thigh. She ripped open the dark tights with her fingers, revealing a purpled bruise around the deep cut. She used a scrap of her own dress to clean around it before tying her hair back with a ribbon and leaning in.

When her plump, pink lips closed around the wound and he felt her sweet breath drawing the very blood from his veins, Gríma, son of Gálmód, had a revelation of death. He saw his mother from when he was a young boy, her dark hair, shining skin and soothing brown eyes drawing him into a memory. He recalled her own lips on his kneecap, a thinly protected area by his easily ruptured skin, kissing away the pain of the latest scrape.

Éowyn withdrew, a mouthful of tainted blood burning her tongue, spitting the liquid to the side. She hesitated only a moment, the look of saturated peace that ruled his expression. She was able to see his eyes clearly for once in the entirety of her lifetime; they were not overshadowed his his hairless brow, they were not drowned by the shadows of the dark circles beneath his eyes or his raven black, wavy hair. No. They were the clearest blue she had ever seen.

'Curious that such clear eyes belong to such a clouded character,' she thought to herself, bending over the wound.

As she sucked the dark liquid from his bloodstream, he felt a surge of desire like never before. So close was she to his groin... Her warm puffs of air landed on the outer fabric of his leggings, the light heat seeping onto his engorging flesh.

He shuddered, biting his tongue to prevent any unprofessional thoughts or events from occurring. 'Like such would take place. My Éowyn... She would have her own dagger at my throat the moment that I dared move toward her. And yet I crave her so. What is it that brings me to my knees before her if I would, like a groveling commoner? Be it her lustrous locks, the spun gold that flies out behind her as she walks? Be it the power in her voice, the strong, unyielding vigor what rivals the men of the hall? I know not what draws me into her. I do not wish to know. For, it is something that no mortal man should ever see of a woman. It is her own mystery, her secrets of her innermost self, her mind, what captivate me, what cage me like a bird. And it is _she_ who fears being caged, when I would not mind it if it were she who had captured me.'

He spun these thoughts of his golden lady as she dipped her head at his leg, siphoning out the last of the lethal waters.

Those in the hall were busied with drink and merriment. Their loud cheers could be heard at the base of Rohan, where the grasses swayed in the nighttime breezes. Théoden King noticed the absence of his sister-daughter, whispering word to Eomer to trail her to the West Hall; the lair of Gríma.

The grudging General took the task all too willingly. He strode quickly into the hall, whose walls danced with the flames of torches. His nose wrinkled as a dog's might at smelling something unsettling. He arrived at the door to the Worm's quarters. It was opened. His brow furrowed deeply when he entered.

His heart nearly burst within his chest. _His_ sister, fair Éowyn of Rohan, who's golden locks trailed down her arched back with a breath of completion and who sat before the pale Worm; the despicable man, looking rather pleased with himself.

"What... _treason is __**this**_?!" he roared, grabbing Gríma by the collar of his dark underclothing. He held the grey-skinned man to his nose, which released hot fumes of hatred.

"Eomer! Release him!" she fought, touching his arm aggressively.

"You have ventured too far on the forbidden land, Worm. I shall name my sword the bird who will snatch your life from the damp ground and consume it!" Eomer's rage was like none before.

"Brother! Stop this! His wound is deep. I do not stand in defense for him--" Éowyn attempted.

"Then why do you speak!" was the outraged reply.

"He vouched for my life, brother. It was _Gríma_ who slew the orc-beast, not I. You knew this to be true. You saw him emerge from beneath the creature and do not deny it under pain of my blade!"

Éowyn watched with cold, pleased eyes when the Wormtongue was dropped to the floor. She glared at her brother, whose gaze was as hard as the stone holding up Meduseld. Her lips were pursed before she spoke again.

"His daggers hold poisons within their tip, and when he slew the beast, he fell on one. I came to fetch him as desired by Théoden King to join the feast this night, and had I not siphoned the poisons from his body, there would be no Counselor left for you to hate." she explained, her tone remaining venomous.

"You speak of my hate, but tell me; what of yours? Have your feelings towards this—this _coward_ wavered toward the better because he has renewed your life?" Eomer squared his shoulders, standing tall over the black ball at her feet that was Wormtongue.

A moment of silence passed over the trio. Éowyn glanced surreptitiously at the man whose face, though she could hardly tell, had colored up some in the mere moments that she had driven the dirtied blood from his veins. She looked to her brother, stepping over the adviser.

"No."

Such a single word could have brought his doom, thought Gríma. He had never felt so defeated. Not even as she extended her hand for him to take and his cloak for him to don to the feast did replenish his smug feelings previous.

"We join Théoden King at the feast." she said simply, Eomer walking a cautious foot ahead of them. Éowyn leaned towards Gríma in that moment, muttering, "If you speak a word of this, I will have you fall on your daggers again, but if you choose to live, you must bleed yourself dry."

With a swish of her golden locks, she vanished from the room. Her brother followed after casting the beaten counselman a look of victorious loathing.

Gríma attended the feast silently, watching as the one he treasured most danced merrily among the men of the guard. His hatred towards Eomer festered like a boil on an old man's back; soon it might explode, and the ending result could wind up being dire. But for the moment, he watched without word behind his King's throne, just another shadow in the dusk.

For a brief moment, his eyes met Éowyn's; azure blue against steely cold grey. She knew that she owed him two favors. Two chances to call on her as he saw fit, and she was to oblige. _He_ knew that he had those chances then. His mind wrestled with using them against her to finally obtain what _he_ wanted; to finally be able to taste her fair flesh under his tongue without worry of her striking out or anyone interfering,to be able to claim her virginity over her and to hold his form with hers in a cocoon of animal furs. How he longed for it. His tongue traced the outline of his thin lips greedily, but his expression turned to shame of himself.

He could not disgrace her. Not after what she had done for him. She had taken the poison, kept it from reaching his heart. She had managed to do that in more ways than one. He made forth an oath at that very moment from within the shadow of the King's throne.

He vowed to aid Rohan with his words. To lead the King in decision-making to benefit the kingdom. He would bite back his foul, tricksey words. He was going to become a Pure of Tongue yet again, just as he was when he was younger; back when he had seen his Éowyn for the first time, frolicking in the court garden with flowers in her hair.

* * *

_Author's Note: _Thank you for all who have read so far. As you can tell, this is somewhat in an Alternate Universe; Théoden isn't a tottering old man and Éomer is a bit more of a protective brother and less of an asshole. Aah... This is written, somewhat, for a one _Auri Mynonys_. I'm sure she gets many Griowyn fiction dedications, but... Oh well. I hope that my words will continue to please.


	2. Bestial

**2: Poisoned Words Are Silenced.**

Three weeks had passed since the intruder creature was found slain in the hall, close to Éowyn's quarters, in frightening fact. The true owner of the beast's head remained unknown, as well as unquestioned.

Éomer and his Riders of Rohan kept station around the village's border; half of the guard remained there whilst the others stalked the inner workings of Meduseld.

Éowyn felt a wave of mixed emotions hit her when two knights began to constantly escort her about the Hall. She had been carefully watched since the orc-monster incident, members of the court council assuming that the princess was in danger of being assassinated. The steely-eyed blond blamed the Wormtongue for such superstition.

"The beast was ne'er but a foot from her chamber. I propose its intentions: to lie in wait within the shadows of her quarters, and to strike upon her entry." a younger guard named Éowal had supplied, sparking further ideas of the board.

'And now I cannot have a moment's peace,' she thought snappily to herself, trudging toward the main Hall. Closing in on her target, her eyes swept the room briefly. With a faint smile, she spun the hem of her white and gold gown, but jumped in shock when she came to stand before Théoden.

To his left was Wormtongue, hunched on the ground next to the king's armrest, as he was usually found. Yet something irked the maiden.

'He has deviated sides. He normally advises from the right.' At her musings, Éowyn gave herself an incredulous look. 'How do you continue to observe such things? Have you no mind? ...Although he spared your life-- No.' Her expression shifted to stone. 'He is still not to be trusted.'

"What thoughts weigh down your mind this morn', My Lady? Such thoughts that make your visage shift through so many different—_veils_?" The oily voice belonged to no other.

Théoden glanced at his counselor, raising an eyebrow. It was not the usual mood for Gríma to ask so boldly of his niece. It was rare indeed for him to ask of her at_ all_, especially of her inner workings. When had his spineless, self-absorbed, serpentine adviser become so... so _bold_?

Éowyn's eyes darted to the darkly clad counselman. She grimaced. "You speak as though you believe that I would truly reveal that to _you_ of all creatures."

Théoden gave his sister-daughter a look of admonishment. What could he do? Yes, he was king, supreme ruler over his lands of Rohan and Edoras, but over the mind of the spicy young woman his Éowyn had become, his power was limited. Useless, even. He, however, must work as he could to keep the peace within his court. He chuckled, standing from his throne to personally approach his niece. He wrapped his arms around her in a mighty hug.

"Théoden King... You have risen." Éowyn muttered, seeming surprised.

"Must there be a coronation in order for a king to embrace his niece?" he asked of her, his deep voice so soothing, so home-y.

Her smile was then brilliant as he took her by the small of her back, leading her towards the outer steps of Meduseld.

Gríma's piercing blue orbs drifted downward to the floor, hiding his pain at her words with the facade of falling into thought. He had noticed how she had been avoiding him in a more _deliberate_ fashion since he had nearly risked his own, measly life to save hers. At normalcy of instinct for her loathing towards him, she would brush past him quickly in the halls, ignore his words and send scathing looks. Of late, he had found her to be using completely different routes so that _no_ contact was made. His words were interrupted and her eyes were glued on anything _but_ him, so that not even an acidic glare was tossed in at random. He had not received a moment's grace from those hate-filled, winter-grey eyes in nearly twenty-one days.

"I found it merely fitting to ask..." he answered under his breath, watching her talk animatedly with her uncle at the mouth of the hall. His eyes traveled up her body from her feet, resting for prolonged amounts of time on her hips and breasts before landing on her celestial face, where he stopped. He rose from his sitting position, stepping gingerly down to the base floor. He wrapped his heavy outer cloak around him, his fingers finding comfort in the soft, black fur that outlined it. He stalked closer to them, blinking against the blindingly beautiful effect of the setting sun against Éowyn's downy, golden waves.

"...and I will not take any excuse from you, sister-daughter. I know that you may fight, and that you do, and do it well, but you will not be lost to the spoils of this war. I will not spend my days worrying if you are alive or dead. You will remain in Rohan with the other women and children. Your imploring words will fall on deaf ears, dear niece." the Golden King informed his kin, whose face fell when her very words were taken from her lips.

It was obviously not easy for Théoden to refuse his adopted daughter her passion of swordplay. But, this was no mere practice that she would be performing, no. This was to be a war between the light and dark, a place barren of swordmaidens and forgiveness should a strike fall stray. This was soon to be the world of the king, along with his faithful villagemen and his valiant Guard.

"And you will take my brother, whose swordsmanship is rivaled by none other than mine? You will take my last family to war with you and you shall lie to me here! Saying that you would not worry any less about Éomer than you would of me would be as such; a lie. You will not focus on him because he is a man. You would doubt me because I am a woman, and that war is no place for women. Do not soften your true intentions with your gilded words. ...I am hurt that you, _you, uncle!_ would attempt to speak to me as your oily-tongued adviser does." Éowyn's eyes threatened tears of anger, but she managed her composure a moment longer.

"I care for you, uncle, as much as I would my own father. I am a Shieldmaiden, and I shall continue to practice at the base of the sword, with or without the surroundings of war." Her concluding words were venomous, but they were diluted with the water in her tears. She stared at her uncle a second longer before taking her leave.

Gríma managed to make half a second's eye contact with his goddess before she gathered the hem of her gold-threaded dress and make her escape to the East Hall. He drew himself close to the King, his hunched shoulders giving him a meek appearance.

"She is not pleased, my King." he muttered.

Théoden stood proudly before his village, his hands clasped behind his back. His hair, lightened as it rivaled with silver, was tussled gently by the wind. His hazel eyes were crinkled at the edges, but wiser than he had ever been, was he.

"Éowyn is a proud girl. Her heart is as robust as the sword she carries. Telling the wolf to abstain from the hunt would bring the same feeling upon it that festers within her; a justified anger. She will come to reason with time," he explained with a patriarchal tone. He allowed a gentle smile.

Never had he heard his superior speak of his niece in such a way. Had the old king come to a revelation?

'No,' mused Gríma. 'His knowledge is far deeper than he allows himself to reveal. Yet, I wonder why he unveils it upon me now of all times? Now, on the brink of war. Here you exploit your truest state of mind?' The dark man did not grace himself to dwell on it. He slunk away towards the East Hall, hoping to find a trace of his Éowyn that might lead him to her. He did not have to pray for much.

The Shieldmaiden's chamber door was left ajar, gifting him with the ability to gaze freely inside without having to ask for and be denied entry. He was able to see, without seeming conspicuous, that she did not inhabit its walls.

Puzzling for a second against the cold stone structure of the passageway, he came to have a brainchild. He stole away toward the balcony, the old ivory pillars granting him the perfect stowaway until he was able to fortify his assumption. He was right.

Éowyn sat on the grass knoll but ten feet from the base of the castle, her form curled into a ball of disappointment. Her hair was over her shoulder, being worked on swiftly by her nimble fingers. In the finished, thick braid, she added dandelions absentmindedly.

Though he could not see her face, Gríma could feel her sadness, her frustrated, dejected aura flowing through him. He pursed his thin, grey lips. His thigh pulsated; the old wound had formed a thick reddened scab since it had been created, and ever since Éowyn's lips had cradled his aggravated, poisoned flesh, the gash seemed linked to her. It throbbed when she was nearby, and even more painfully so when her mood was negative as it was then. Gríma grasped at his upper leg, attempting to quell the pain. He limped forward.

"My lady, I am sure that you are feeling most discouraged. Please do not allow such a restriction to harden your train of thought," he cooed, coming to stand three feet behind her. He flinched when she whirled around, her braid whipping against her back. His eyes softened when her angry, reddened eyes landed on him.

"Do not speak to me, you vile, hideous creature! Your words are and shall never be welcomed to my ears!" she shrieked, yet her eyes remained attached to him.

Never had he been scorned in such a way. He had gained her vision's graces at long last, but not in the way he had longed for. He had to use all of his bodily strength to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. He brushed his greasy hair from his face with a trembling hand.

"Of... Of course, my lady." The words were spoken in a voice that was defeated, and that cracked in the middle of the sentence.

"You have done nothing but haunt my steps. You... You undress me with your eyes and attempt to snare me with your speech but I shall inform you now that it is impossible for you to take me. You may be able to bend the mind of Théoden King, but I am _not_ he! I am a Shieldmaiden; a woman of great power and surely more power than you could ever, _ever_ hope to muster." Her voice shook with adrenaline. How she had desired to speak these words to him. She stood, squaring herself into a haughty, tall form.

"_You_ will _never_ hold power over me. Not even as I am held in your..." She paused, struggling for a moment. "...As I am held in your debt, not even then will you seduce me with your word-weaving. Never."

"Then why do you give such excuses, my lady? Why announce this as I already know it to be true? Surely your mind is far too determined, too focused to allow my persuasion to ascent yet you feel it is necessary to speak it? Perhaps it is because you feel that you must assure yourself that this is not so?" Gríma questioned, shifting on his feet. He knew better not to talk back to his lady, but he was no longer in control of his own lips. He suddenly felt emboldened at his own audacity. His chest puffed beneath his heavy cloak, and a look of smugness could be seen in his eye past his defeated expression. Oh how a decent lie once in a while could lift a man's spirit.

Éowyn opened her mouth to retort, but found that her word-slash had been deflected. She should have known better than to challenge a wordsmith at his own game, but the overwhelming desire to lash out at her long-time nemesis was worth the humiliation of her silence. She lifted her head high, collecting the hem of her dress. She looked down upon Gríma from beneath her eyelids, attempting to degrade him with her scathing gaze.

"I need not assure myself of something that is untrue."

Her final sentence as she skirted past him released a shiver that avalanched down his curved spine. His posture straightened when he was sure that she could not see him; he made himself seem pitiful merely because such an image was what gave rise out of her, making it excusable to create some form of conversation between them, whether the words were kind or otherwise. He smirked at her departing self. 'Do you loathe weakness so, my Éowyn? Is it so unbearable to you, that degradation of strength in mind and body alike, or is it simply because you are viewed to have such a state of being due to your gender alone?' he wondered of her, raising a naked eyebrow.

'Know that not all women are thought to be weak. You, my lady, have made it so.' His smirk deepened. 'I do not doubt your vigor in _other _areas, either, Lady. Such a... strong leg and hand could be useful _outside_ of combat.' His perverse mind would have caused him death if Éowyn was bestowed the Elvish gift of Wordless Speech*. He scowled inwardly at himself, suddenly discouraging such immature thought of his desired. He gathered his clothing, darting towards Meduseld to escape the night chills, along with the soon-to-be patrolling Guard.

* * *

The dinner-feast was fairly limited; Théoden, of course, Éomer and his underlings, Éowyn and soon to be Wormtongue as well inhabited the open doors of Meduseld. Candle lights made shadows dance upon the food laden table, the silver dinnerware glimmering softly in the amber light. Heavier torches fought back the darkness of even the most acute corner, and the valiant green banner embroidered with the majestic white steed dressed each wall surrounding.

Such festivities were held once every few months for one reason or another, yet anyone in the near area could tell that this was no ordinary condition. The entirety of Edoras was raving with activity, even as the dusk kissed the light form the sky. War was on the cusp for the Eorlingas; in the morning, all men of Rohan would ride and meet with the men of Gondor, the callers for aid of whom they were the answer. This war was to be the impact of their Age, and so the men brought merriment to their lives for what could be the final time for many, too many, of them.

The feast stretched from the open hall of the King down into the streets of Edoras, and in some spots of surrounding Rohan. Families could be seen rejoicing, drinking, saying their goodbyes, their 'I love you's and speeches of endearment.

Théoden leaned his back against a cool pillar, his posture proud. He smiled in a peaceful way, lifting his golden goblet to sample some of his red mead.

'To be the leader of such a land as this is a gift that few other men have known, and they before my time. There could be nothing greater to a king than to see his people, the children of his land, preparing themselves for what could be their final sunset yet with laughs in their bellies and grins on their lips.' the patriarch mused, his golden hair mussed gently by a stray zephyr.

The weight of his responsibilities as king, as a leader to a victory that he himself preordained, felt light that night. Possibly light enough, he thought, that they seemed to have vanished completely. He knew that he was allowing the peace of the night before war to settle too deeply into his mind.

"Théoden King." The voice so strong, yet as smooth as Elven silk belonged to no other than his Éowyn.

"Please, Éowyn. I am not your king this night; I am your uncle. Such formalities make the mood of the evening dull." He allowed a chuckle after his statement, turning over his shoulder to glance at his niece. Had she always been a young woman? When was the last time that he had looked her way and seen a feisty young child?

'Too many years ago,' he sighed to himself, smiling lightly.

Éowyn stepped closer, standing next to her relation. "Uncle," she said slowly, tasting the word. "I pray that you obtain your greatest victory. Not for yourself alone, but for all Men. I wish nothing more than to see the end of the strain that this feud places on our world extinguished."

Her eyes, so cold, so light, gazed out beyond the city walls to the mountains that separated their corner of land from the enemy. Her mind, it seemed, traveled ever farther.

Théoden wondered how far from the war-fevered grounds his kin's thought flew. He worried for her when her face crumpled for split second, suggesting that a thought of dejection crossed her mind. He reached, touching her shoulder. He hugged her, one arm around her slim shoulders, her warmth radiating through his thick robe. He had not embraced her so since she was a girl.

"Fear not for the war and what may come of it. What will be, will be, my child. We cannot change what is preordained, but we may alter the path that takes us to our victory."

Éowyn leaned on her uncle for a spare moment. She allowed her lashes to kiss her cheekbones, her rose petal lips to quiver at the edges, but she spoke not. After what seemed to little time, she gently pushed herself away; she did not want to remember that feeling of her father figure's touch over her shoulder, just in case she should lose it.

'In case I should lose both you, uncle, and my beloved brother to the unjust sword of our enemy, I shall barricade myself from your presence. I will not linger on such trivial things, as I will remember you in your glory, not your sentiments.' Her thoughts were cruel, yet she knew that it was the best thing for herself at such a time. Knowing the chance of her losing the remaining supports of her family's house could crush her, she kept her mind lofty and away from the tender moments.

"Come, Uncle. I wish to propose a toast to you and to Éomer before your ride to battle on the morning's kiss," she murmured, her dress sweeping around her ankles as she turned, looking to her uncle, her King, with a wistful smile.

He nodded wordlessly, obliging her. He took her arm, striding with her to the head of the Hall where Éomer waited, dressed in his armors. Her silver goblet was filled with the King's royal, crimson mead, which she raised above her head. All the company went silent, gazing upon her like she had turned into a falling star.

"I raise my glass this night in the honor of our men, in the honor of Rohan, and in the honor of her King." Her eyes swept the hall before she continued.

"We shall ride to war as the sun's kiss lights the Heavens. Our swords shall be soiled with the blood of our enemies, our shields shall be splintered as they ply between us and our victory, but our virtues shall remain untouched. I, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, give my loyalty," her voice and expression matched in sudden softness as she spoke her next words, "and my blessings to all of you who stand to give your lives for ours. I give the prayer of the Valar."

She lowered her glass, her eyes locking onto the royal crest hanging on the wall at the mouth of the hall. The white horse seemed to stare back. She allowed her eyelids to droop while she melted into peace, reciting the prayer of the gods, her uncle, brother, and soldiers murmuring in unison.

* * *

The grounds below the immense stature of the Tower of Isengard churned with the waving figures of his armies. It almost resembled a black sea at the base; the orcs' quivering bodies that shook with anticipation of blood and rotting man-flesh forming the illusion of slowly rippling waters. Their cries in orc tongue of battle long awaited molded into a single chant that pounded in one's ears to the monotonous beat of their war drums.

Stenches of melting metals, industrial smoke, body odor and burning wood wafted through the air in a heavy black wave that melded into the dark heavens.

Normally such an ominous success would be able to summon a smile despite the White Wizard's most grisly mood. Not today. Not even the promise of blood could lighten the pounding headache that threatened to overwhelm him.

'I wonder, have you taken your avarice to a new dimension? Along with power of unmentionable proportions over those you wish to quell, Éomer kneeling at your feet like a tamed beast and the strong, pure heart of Théoden's sister-daughter, I see that you now harbor a desperate lust to have your faithfulness renewed.'

Saruman wandered away from the balcony that overlooked his immense ranks, stroking his white beard. Beneath his still dark eyebrows and within his deep brown, unreadable eyes, a plan of revenge stirred in his mind. He chuckled darkly, taking a seat with his staff.

'I will break you yet,' he muttered to himself of his traitorous henchman. From the low-hanging hem of his white robe's sleeve, his bony digits emerged to sweep over the dull crystal atop his scepter His eyes glittered deviously as it flickered to life.

'You doubt my ability, Worm,' he spoke out into the abyss that was his mind. 'You have witnessed too little of my power, and so it is now that in your time of betrayal, you shall meet your long-planned comeuppance.

'I shall take what is distracting you, my slimy underling, as you have so easily taken what miniscule grain of trust I lay in you and dissolved it. Mayhap I would forgive you once your ill mind is cleared and you crawl, swiftly, back to my feet.'

His bearded lips twisted into a malicious grin, his hand cupping the large stone on his staff similarly to a black cloud blocking out the sun. He closed his eyes to assume a more serious air. His aura deepened in density, giving the room around him a more dim atmosphere. Focusing and opening his psyche, he flew across the lands of Mordor, his mind at last connecting with the thoughts of his desired target.

'Gríma, son of Gálmód, you disappoint me deeply.' he boomed into the mental darkness, although his tone was playfully ominous.

Suddenly, the abyss around him filled with light, and the images of several young, beautiful women appeared. Saruman walked forth, examining his handyman's innermost mind. A smile that was most unsettling crept across his mouth; the images happened to be of the _same _ young woman, every single one. It was as though he was staring at an endless hall filled with rustic paintings of deceased rulers, what with the images decorating his left and right, stacked and spaced neatly above each other.

The White Wizard recognized the young lady.

'So, I was correct in assuming that it is, indeed, still the sister-daughter to Théoden King whom your so wretchedly lust after?' he mused, trotting down the gallery of Éowyn paintings. His dark gaze must have learned all of her emotions while he journeyed along; happiness, embarrassment, despair, excitement and more favorably, anger and loathing.

'Tell me, Worm, in what way would you respond should I pilfer such a treasure from your loveless fortune? ...The curiosity is _weighty_.' He chuckled suggestively, opening his eyes and exiting Gríma's mind.

* * *

*"Wordless Speech" - I didn't think it would sound Third Age-like of me to say "telepathy," so I had to think of an alternate term. (laugh) It doesn't sound too corny, does it?

AN: Hopefully this chapter was easy to comprehend. I know it seemed a little scattered in places, but I tried to abstain to one idea at a time. Also, the last bit with Saruman 'flying across Mordor' is meant to express how his mind is searching across the lands themselves for Gríma's psyche, to which he connects and infiltrates. Just in case one happened to say, "WTF?" to themselves. XD


	3. Brisk

**3: White Wizard, White Lilies.**

Éowyn wouldn't have noticed the small ripple on the surface of her cup of mead, nor how it deepened in color when she lifted it to her lips. She took a dainty, if generous, sip before setting her goblet upon the table. She watched the room of men mirror her action with a smile of pride.

'May victory be on swift wings that would fly you back to me,' she prayed, gazing surreptitiously toward her uncle and older brother.

She took her seat, her full plate drawing her attention. She planned on donning a man's spare armor and shield despite her uncle's imploring words. She was, in fact, a Shieldmaiden still, determined to uphold her own fierce beliefs. Éowyn could nearly feel the rough hilt of her sword at her fingertips. Oh, what a pleasure it would bring to her senses! The smell of the iron, the feeling of that metallic weight in her hands, the sight of the sun reflecting upon that long blade, the taste of her sweat sneaking into her mouth as she slashed enemy after enemy and the melodious sound of victory that would be theirs soon enough; all was enough to make her shudder in pleasure the way a man could never replicate.

Gríma, at the side of his king, found himself staring at his golden-haired image of perfection, the norm'. He studied her subtler habits at the table, his eyes absorbing every movement like a child would watch the lightning kiss the sky before a storm.

How her index finger supported her fork while the others lay folded, how her knife was held with her left hand instead of her right, like most villagers held theirs, how her lips formed the most near-perfect oval before they engulfed each slice of her roast; all of her mannerisms astounded him, even how she only tapped the corners of her succulent mouth and not the center with her handkerchief. Oh, how he could watch her for hours—but next to her, the intense glare of Éomer snared his attention from hid goddess. Gríma swallowed deeply, lowering his eyes to his untouched plate.

"Have you no appetite, Gríma?" Théoden chuckled, patting the dark man on the back."You stare upon your plate as though your meat still lives!"

His king was an honorable man, indeed. Never suspect a thing, he wouldn't. How Gríma found it in his heart to go against such a man, he wasn't sure himself.

'He has only ever been like a father in my presence, the guide that I never knew as a lad… Yet I decided to spit lies and black truth into his mind. Despicable, loathsome me! It is no mystery to me how I am so easily identified with such hateful words from afar.' He wailed within his mind. He reached up with his hands, cupping the sides of his head. The lace material of his sleeve-gloves irritated his fair skin slightly.

"What ails you?" Théoden inquired, patting his adviser's shoulder.

"N-Nothing, my king; I suppose it is merely too much ruckus for my ears," he lied, smiling weakly.

"You may leave our company. I wouldn't have my adviser's mind endangered." The King chuckled warmly, raising his golden goblet to toast with a member of the Guard who sat nearby.

"But, my Lord—" Gríma pleaded. He only wished to remain present, of course, to watch over his target of obsessive love.

"Please. Your stamina is needed to maintain the peace in my stead." Théoden's good spirits had turned stony. His brown eyes were kind, knowing.

The black haired man complied, reluctantly, as expected. He bowed his head as he stood, pulling his cloak tightly around him while he melted into the shadows. He waited there, however, spying on the ongoing merrymaking from the darkness.

Éowyn laughed into her goblet of mead, drinking the last of it down. Her face was bright, almost drowning out the North Star in comparison.

How he longed to hear her laughs reverberate around the stone walls of an empty room, with him being her only audience. 'I broke both alliances for you, my Éowyn. It is the least I would ask of you.'

* * *

At long last, the Guard was sent down to camp in the village along with the rest of Rohan's warriors. The hall laid barren, save for the few servants who scurried about in attempt to make it look presentable again. Three gargantuan dogs, Théoden's personal companions for the hunt, gathered beneath the long table that was raised for the occasion, licking their maws at the plates piled high with meat-and-bone scraps that they would receive.

Théoden had retired, bidding the evening to Éomer in the corridor before he took to his chamber. The King placed a hearty clap on his nephew's shoulder, his brown eyes kind and fearless.

"Tomorrow we ride aside the very winds to a victory that shall be remembered for ages. Fear not for what could happen, sister-son; one must focus his mind only on what occurs in the moment. Fight hard, and give up not your sword or shield. You are a man of Rohan. Your lands bring you luck," he spoke, his gaze constant toward the younger blond. He smiled gently, dropping his hand to his side.

"I shall die with my shield in hand, not on it," Éomer oathed. His tone, although it was barely traceable, trembled with emotion.

"Aye. May all of our allies do the same."

"On the morrow, uncle, I shall see you in battle," Éomer said quietly, bowing his head before he took leave of his kin.

* * *

(From the view of a young maid)

'Twas night over Rohan, and we remain awake, cleaning the remains of the great feast held moments ago. The dogs stir beneath the tables, whining for the plates piled high with scraps.

I smile, leaning down to oblige them. I stroke the coarse yet smooth brown fur of Théoden King's prized breeding bitch, Téolan. My palm runs over her belly, full of doglings that squirm against my touch; Téolan sniffs at my apron, resting her head in my lap with a tired lick of her lips. I must bite my tongue to stifle the laugh that threatens as her mate, Oréon, puffs hot air into my ear. I raise my other hand to stroke his proud chest, and he is appeased. I watch while Téolan stands on unsteady legs to greet her lover; such an old, vigorous girl, that wolf of a dog.

"Éobeta, make use of yourself. Attend to the Lady Éowyn post haste!"

I hear an older servant, my favored companion, Éola, instructing me across the hall. Though I am seventeen summers, she still acts my mother. I stand wordlessly, dusting the lap of my dress free of stray dog hair. I give the beasts at my feet a final pat before bowing to Éola, making my way to the White Lady's chambers.

I stop at the corner of the wall, staring back at Éola as she scrubs the floors. I feel a white heat in my core when observing her. Someone as beautiful as she should no longer be found a handmaiden , scratching at the dirt in the stone floors with her rag. No, she should be wife to a noble man and birth beautiful children who dance around her feet.

'You deserve to wash the back of a loving husband in a warm cottage, not the uneven tiles of a cold hall,' I say to myself.

"Éobeta, make not the Lady wait on a silly girl like you. Go now," Éola speaks again, righting herself. Her white-blond locks, straight down her back in a whip-like braid; her eyes, blue like the oceans but shaded by her dark lashes, watch me intently.

I cannot deny the light smile that kisses my lips. I thank her quietly, fisting the hem of my dress.

Her downy cheeks pinked for a passing second and though she is three winters wiser than I, she looks so much younger . She wrings her rag into the kettle that holds her water, giving me an exasperated smile.

"Go," she whispers, her voice amber-colored. She nods once, seeing me off.

I dawdle no longer. My duties are before me like a stone in my path; I must step o'er gracefully in order to continue my journey. I had never ventured into my Lady's chambers, for it was Éomela who took such tasks to hand. I took the hem of my dirtied, flaxen dirndl in my fists ever tighter, trotting briskly down the corridor. I faced the door, taking a moment to knock gently against the smooth, gilded wood.

"Lady Éowyn," I say, my voice a-shiver from emotion. I receive no answer. "My Lady, it is I, Éobeta, your handmaiden who speaks. Need you not aid dressing into your nightclothes?" I rest my ear against the cool, polished oak. In the pit of my stomach, an icy cold water churns there.

I know not why I am consumed so, yet a feeling of chilly dread crawls over me, draping along my shoulders as a cloak. I take the ring handle of the door in my palm, the unblemished metal sending goose pimples to my arms. I push the door in slowly, so as not to startle my Lady.

"Lady Éowyn--" I begin, but my words catch in my throat. I behold her there, her cold grey gaze curtained by her downy lashes. She lay atop her bed, her hands raised around her head. I approach cautiously to gather free-lying pelts with which to cover her up. I wonder to myself if the feast was so exhausting to my Lady for her to sleep so suddenly. I lean in, brushing my hand against hers as I pack the thick animal skins tightly around her. I cease, my heart uneasy.

Her skin feels of ice.

"My Lady, why ever are you so cold?" I inquire aloud, hoping that she would wake to answer. I am graced with no reply yet again. My heart quickens in its dance.

I say her name louder, attempting to jostle her with gentle shakes. I feel faint when she answers not. I place my hands atop her breast, pushing down with a bit more force. My own voice sounds foreign as I cry her name, like a child whose dog would not rise to play. I swallowed the ache in my throat, hesitating at her bedside, my eyes locked upon her motionless form. I saw that her breath did not run from her parted lips; her chest lay still, bestowing the look of a statue upon her.

I was no longer able to speak. My tongue had gone numb inside of my mouth, and my legs carried me quickly from her tomb to the dark hall, my back pressed to the wall. I was unable to move my eyes from my Lady's still body that lay in her bed.

They were sudden and inhuman, the shrieks what erupted from my lips. One following the next, all danced around the emptied Hall to come back to my own ears. I struggled to close my mouth and end the wretched noise, but my attempts were in vain. Tears boiled over, salty hot, down my cheeks to my tongue.

I had yet to blink them away before Lord Éomer himself charged from the dim torchlight to me, some of his fellow Guardsmen in tow.

"What goes? Speak, girl!" he bellowed, shaking me.

I had not time to utter a word, not that my throat that ached with every breath should allow such an explanation, before my Lord turned to my Lady's opened chamber. I see him dash inside, his Guard companions shifting on their feet around me. I knew not what went on inside of my Lady's chamber, but my Lord's mighty voice bellowed like thunder.

"Éowyn!" he cried, "Éowyn, wake, I say!"

The Guard suddenly parted, their armor nearly making them seem part of the wall. It was my King who approached. His strides were long, and his wail ever longer. His armor, not yet removed, creaked with his frantic movements.

"Fetch Gríma," I hear, Théoden King's order a growl from deep within his throat. I braced during a brief silence, my King shouting as the wargs howl, "BRING FORTH MY ADVISOR!" Lord Éomer emerged, dashing to the West Hall to summon the Wormtongue.

My body shook, my lips slack while small, incoherent noises burst from them. I wipe the tears from my eyes, now nearly dried besides; the sensation stung. I lean into the strong arm around my shoulder, belonging to a Guardsman, no doubt.

"You have seen enough this night, handmaiden. Come, to bed with you," the Guard spoke softly, his armored arm leading me off.

I wring my hands, biting at my fingertips when I blubber, "But, my Lady--!"

"My Lady Éowyn is in passionate hands. She will persevere. Doubt you the ability of your Shieldmaiden?" Though his words held no humor, I could hear the smile in his voice.

My innards felt aflame. 'Be you as strong as your sword, my Lady,' I prayed while rounding a corner, the Guard at my side, ushering me on to the maid's keep. I stood at the door, preparing to enter while the guard left me to rejoin his pack, yet I was frozen a moment more when a fleeting glimpse of a cloak, dark as the night's overhead without stars, vanished into my Lady's quarters.

"A shadow which runs among shadows retreats from his dark haven to aid the light," I wonder aloud to myself, my chest shuddering no longer. I shake away my worries, my fears for my Lady, as it might attract evil spirits to her weakened body. Aside, I knew nothing but faith in Her Ladyship. I knew that the White Lady would wake.

* * *

Gríma's heart skipped a beat when his pale eyes landed on the still, ghostly white form of his lady. His face broke into a cold sweat, and he whipped his gaze onto Éomer.

"You, Horsetamer! Seek the Apothecary and obtain the Root of Anwényn and a fresh flame. Go now!" he hissed while taking a worried glance at Éowyn before dashing off into his own quarters. He burst through the entryway, gliding over to his shelves of ingredients. He picked through the flasks, bottles, test tubes and jars until he found a small phial of milky liquid.

'The last of it, but it shall fulfill its purpose well,' he thought hastily, running out to Éowyn's chamber. He clutched the phial of _poica limpe_ in gentle desperation. The mixture of phoenix tears and unicorn milk had been the prize of his thievery while in Saruman's personal store. He had used most of it in his failed attempts to make a sleeping drought in which to give to his Lady one afternoon, but the results were always far too poisonous. He pondered using the ending mixtures to rid himself of Éomer at long last, but he knew what the consequence would be, and he dared not risk it.

Gríma ran past the king's throne just as Éomer dismounted his horse on the top steps of Meduseld, his armor clanking when he ran towards the dark man with a brightly flickering torch in hand.

Wormtongue dashed into Éowyn's bedroom, Éomer shortly behind. The dark man took the sturdy piece of Root of Anwényn, cut the sandpaper-like skin and collected the cloudy juices that quickly spilled over into the phial. There was a sudden aroma of heavy mint with honeysuckle that wafted from the glass tube. Gríma placed the cork inside of it, taking the torch from Éomer to boil the liquid briefly.

Théoden sat on the bed next to his dying niece, stroking her chilled cheek, his bearded chin quivering. His eyes revealed that he was much older than he seemed. 'My beloved sister-daughter... If I was ever borne a daughter, I would pray that she could be as you are. My Éowyn; so strong. Do not lose this fight. Do not be defeated...' he prayed.

Gríma pushed the torch back into Éomer's gloved hands, jumping to Éowyn's side. He sat upon her bedside, uncorking the phial above her lips. The scent of fresh rain, roses and warm tears spilled into the room from the concoction. Pale fingers probed at the colorless lips of the king's niece, opening her mouth into which the adviser poured the savory smelling liquid.

Éomer stood over his baby sister, his head spinning. He couldn't lose her. She was... She had ever been everything in his world. If he lost her, then so would all else.

The three men awaited anxiously when the last drop of the elven cure fell from the rim of the phial between her lips. What felt like hours was, if only but one. Théoden could wait no more. The sight of his adopted daughter laying motionless and paled made him want to retch, and so he strode out into the hallway, leaning against the stone walls with his forehead in his hands.

Gríma's eyes zeroed in on her lips, how they parted gently. He lowered his exhausted lids, exhaling and putting the weight of his face upon his palms. Éomer had left the scene not long ago upon silent order of his uncle, which left the two alone to wait.

In the dreary, heavy-minded state of being nearly asleep, Wormtongue awoke sharply, his eyes struggling to make the room stop spinning. He had heard something; the whisper of a whisper, it sounded like. He stumbled from his seat onto the floor, scooting closer to her bedside. His thin lips twitched at the corners; the sound came from Éowyn's lips.

Her mouth had brightened from its marble-white coloration to a rosy pink, her skin returning to its ivory fair shade as well. From her slowly heaving chest up to her eyes that danced beneath her lids, his honey-fair maiden was alive.

Gríma scrambled to stand, caressing her forearm gingerly. He found himself being stared at by two drowsy, silver irises. His ecstasy did not falter even when her eyes drifted closed again. He sidled out into the hall, speaking excitably.

"My Lord, my King!" he tittered.

Théoden snapped to his adviser's white visage, gaze ridden with anxiety.

"My lady... She lives." The way that Gríma spoke these words could be compared to him announcing the birth of a beautiful infant.

"Éowyn!" He made it to her resting place in four strides, touching her warming skin with uneasy fingertips. He placed three chaste kisses upon her; one to her brow and two to her cheeks. "You frighten this old man, my dear, and on the eve of war..."

The dark man felt as though he were prevented from entering the room on the touching scene by a barrier of sorts, but he stepped forth with uncertainty despite. "My liege... I shall guard her this night." The look that his king gave him demanded to know why he himself should not sit by her. "...My lord, gracious king..." he simpered, "You are most needed at the front of your men on the morn,' not the side of your niece. So shall you purify your lands from the growing poison that is Saruman and his armies, so shall the quicker my Lady be healed, as well."

Pausing, the sovereign blinked contemplatively. He knew that what his slimy opinionator spoke was the harsh truth. He bestowed a final kiss atop her light haired head before standing before Gríma. Behind his overjoyed though exhausted eyes were the words of a sage.

"Gríma, what I must ask of you is of grave importance," he began, searching the councilman's face for traces of insecurity. There was none to be found among the intent stare what decorated his colorless mug. "The war against our greatest enemy lies only a few hours ahead." He paused, gathering his muster.

"The possibility that my horse shall arrive on the city's steps without me is great. I hereby entrust you, Gríma, son of Gálmód, with a very heavy charge." He spoke with not a drop of humility.

"...Yes, my liege?" Gríma murmured, signaling his ruler to continue.

"In the event of my death, which could be nearly certain amidst what the future holds, I ask that you aid my Éowyn in the ascension to the throne. ...My Éowyn..." He stopped once more to look at her fondly. "She shall mold Rohan into a kingdom worthy of allegiance; prosperity and desirability will be of our people in her hands. She shall be a fair governor, more so than I."

Théoden reached into the folds of his under-tunic to reveal a folded envelope stamped with his royal wax seal. He stared at it momentarily in thought before presenting it to his assistant.

"I had prepared this decree long ago, as I knew that a time such as this would impend upon me. With this final order unto you as your king, Gríma, I insist that you take Éowyn as a wife, however surreptitiously, for she must be thought of as the only ruler. Our family has only ever married our family*, and so it must remain as if she had refused to be bound by marriage. I ask that, in this union, you act as a guardian. I give my very trust to you, and so plead that you give her no burden. Catch her wrist should she stumble, but remain free of her path and her mind unclouded."

Gríma swallowed dryly, twisting the parchment envelope subconsciously. "My... my lord..." It was all of the court's knowledge how a moment like this was the Worm's ever-present fantasy. They knew how he whimpered her name in the dead of night within his dreams, how her very passing aroma of earth and honeysuckle made him sweat. And then as her uncle, her "father," bereaved him of his doubts that such an event could ever take place...

"Will you honor what may be my final desire? If not one else to guard her, then have her marry a suitable, strong young man, so help me, or let her to live a lonely life, but never truly alone. Gríma..."

Wormtongue's luminescent blue eyes traveled up to his world-weary king's imploring, strong stare. He glanced quickly upon the sealed decree in his shaking grip, replying in a tone that trembled with anticipation, loyalty, and longing, "You wishes are but my greatest concern, Théoden King."

"I would not doubt that your promise is kept. My thanks to you for assuring the desires of an old man." Théoden smiled briefly, passing one final sweep of his goateed lips across his niece's forehead before he took his leave, opting to rest then before he was swept into battle.

* * *

The black fur cloak swirled to pool about his feet when he sat there in the corner of her chamber, staring at her peaceful form from within the torchlight's shadows. Wormtongue tucked the final decree of his ruler into his cape, insuring his remembrance of it.

'My Golden Maiden... How oft you are nearly stolen from me if not by orc sword then by wizard's poison, and if not that then by the charm of another man. How do you seek to escape me so? Am I truly so repulsive, so vile that you could welcome death quicker than my touch? ...How presumptuous of me. Of course I am as vile and repulsive as I, myself, have proposed, what with this flesh that seems to have accepted death, these lips which uttered lies to your sweet ears for so long. Yet you, so beautiful and more so than the freshest moonbeams caressing the lightly trembling waves within the lakes, nay, more gorgeous than the rose bouquets given to virgin maidens that are adorned with Baby's Breath... I am still incorrect. My Lady, my Éowyn, you... you are so resplendent that the very gods of the Valar are blinded by your grace, your selflessness... How I could muse upon your fairness for weeks upon weeks. Yet, I digress. I shall keep you, my Éowyn, like the monks keep the Holy Scrolls; forever in my possession, forever under my doting watch.'

With a pale finger resting atop the inner pocket in which the decree rested, Gríma's eyes spun in a feeble attempt to remain active.

It was then that she stirred, if only subtly. Beneath her naturally darkened lashes, her eyes thrashed about. "Th...éodred..." she whispered, her hands fisting weakly.

Wormtongue's memory coughed up a favorably disregarded snippet of the past, in which she snapped in a tone so low and weighted with her pained loathing, "Your words are poison."

'Oh, White Lady... You know not how..._fatal_... your own tongue can be.' His final slurred thought dissolving into the blackness swallowing his awareness, Gríma collapsed into a dormancy the likes of which he hadn't known in years.

* * *

**I do apologize for the lengthy time in which I've been away. Well, for those of you who care. In any case, I do hope that this meets your presumably high demands of me, seeing as I've been so largely absent. I'm alive~ **

***- "our family has only ever married our family": Théoden is saying that the Eorlingas had never really married anyone from outside of Rohan, and so to do so, especially with _his_ niece, would cause outrage.**

**Also, _poica limpe_ is Sindarin, I believe, for 'pure milk'; the name of the draught that Gríma prepared to "resurrect" Éowyn. **

**If I missed anything noteworthy in this installment that raises questions, just ask. I'll probably scoff at my own carelessness and explain. :D**


	4. Clandestine

**(4)**

Hours swirled into the days, which morphed into weeks, and clustered together to form the first month after the war had, at long last, dissolved. Having lasted for little over two nights, the "world war" between Saruman's ocean of orc rogues and the gallant warriors of Gondor and Rohan acted as a large match that had been struck; burning brightly in the beginning, yet extinguishing quickly and without finale.

Saruman was left alone, without militia and servant upon whom to exercise his frustration upon, to brood over his next plans concerning his "imminent dominion" over Middle Earth. He sat upon his cold throne, his knuckles a ghastly white as he clutched his staff in suppressed rage. He thought many a time during his grim contemplation to send for Gríma, though the rampant Ents stomping about in his flooded front yard would cause minor delivery errors.

In Rohan, the slowly chilling airs were weighted with the silence of the mourning villagers. Golden haired women clasped their hands in prayer for the ease of souls to pass into the heavens. Sons, young and old, stood as the statues of their ancestors did; resolute, impenetrable to the arrows of despair that strung at their rigid hearts. Daughters, young woman and tot alike, sprinkled the hardening soil with their virgin tears, whispering silent wishes of peace for the hereon, hands entwined like iron links in an unbreakable chain.

What little men did return, wives, sons and daughters pooled at their feet, showering them with kisses, love and grace abound. Envy, diluted by grief enveloped many women whose homes were left that much more barren with the lack of their beloveds.

And in the mediocre cloud of Rohirrim to return to their motherland, the golden-haired head with the weight of kingship upon his heart did not resurface. Slain in his utmost moment of triumph, Théoden King lay amongst his enemies, his world-weary soul long at rest. His legacy remained behind along the connected heartstrings of his people, who cherished his fatherly leadership as the sheep cherish the shepherd. Though, more intimately, his magnetic personality within the walls of Meduseld dug deeper wounds for those Théoden left behind after his spirit sailed to the Undying Lands.

Éowyn's strong heart regained its marble-like strength in the weeks to come following the night of her nearly successful assassination. Her conscience regained with her slowly awakening body, she grew to loathe her birth gender, blaming her sudden familiarity with death's caresses upon her womanhood. She cast blame of frailty over herself, willing herself to recover patiently before using what build-up of strength she would store to train her body in the ways of Shieldmaidenry she had known not before. She vowed to know illness no longer.

It was six days following this oath in which news of her uncle's death reached her ears. Her power over her emotions, so mastered over the near two decades of her life, crumbled as clay left too long in the sun. She could not drive back the advance of her vitality's decline, no matter how she fought. She succumbed to a setback in her recovery, laying silently in her bed with fever on her brow and night-terrors haunting her mind.

The condition of Éomer was hidden from Rohan's White Lady, for fear her very soul would fly from her paled lips to oblivion should an ounce more of worry or fear seep into her heart. He had been carried home atop his mount, which gave its last shuddering breath upon reaching the outer gates of Edoras. The golden haired General was given to private care to the young maid, Éobeta, though many of the officers surviving the war thought him not to last but a few days; his sides were riddled with sword slashes, arrow piercings and shrapnel of various sorts. The blood what flew from his wounds could have filled a small lake, yet he lived. He breathed with labor, his brow slicked with sweat and all of his body's workings moaning in not only physical pain, but also with the emotional blows that he had to face after witnessing the deaths of his closest comrades, Théoden King among the slew of corpses. He continued to thrive, albeit weakly, beneath Éobeta's cold cloth which kissed the blood away from his stubborn wounds; never before had his body taken so many blows in succession, and the many open lesions grappled for his energy, all determined to heal before the next, retarding his healing ability altogether.

Five and a half nights graced the General's young life before Mandos claimed his spiritual essence, and his soul passed quietly, as he was deemed already dead in the aching heart of Éowyn. He was given the warrior's burial; burned at pyre until naught but his charred armor remained of him, his ashen remains collected and scattered about the land of his birth on the winds. His armor was buried amongst his cousin and uncle, his cleaned helmet mounted atop the vacant throne in the Great Hall for all to see and honor alongside His Majesty's.

Three more silent weeks trudged past before Lady Éowyn's shapely feet slid from the warmth of her animal furs to the cold, unforgiving tiles of Meduseld's corridors. Even after her prolonged resting period, she was considerably weakened, reduced to brushing the walls around her with her palms for support as she walked. Her heart ached with each step, and her anger that much more festered within the frontmost part of her troubled mind.

'I... am Shieldmaiden by hand, Shieldmaiden by choice and by blood! How dare I, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, weaken myself so? What...what ill dares diminish my strength when it is for justice and heavenly deeds that I grasp my scabbard? Know the Valar not how my people need me, as an infant needs her mother? Théoden King... Uncle... He returns in spirit from the battlefield, and brother Éomer has also been cradled to eternal slumber, and so now it is I, Éowyn, who must rest my back proudly against that lonely throne, but I shall not look about my people with dead eyes. No.'

Éowyn's hands fisted against the stone wall, pushing herself upright with a sudden burst of suppressed willpower. Her blond brows hung tightly upon her fair face in a look of determination, her rose petal lips pursed into a line. She went to take her first step forward without an aid, yet her legs could not bear the weight of her righted form, even though she had taken a more slight form after her illness had dissolved. She attempted to gain support of the wall once more when her knees buckled, but her touch was not long enough. Preparing to feel the sting of the solid stone against her ankles and knees, she flinched, however met no such pain.

The sudden warmth of thick furs cradled her crying muscles dipped her mind in brief drowsiness. She inhaled slowly, collecting her thoughts before her shining silver eyes re-opened. She felt secure albeit spindly fingers supporting her; one hand at the small of her back, the other at the front of her, inches away from cupping a breast. Finding her balance, she rose from the toasty embrace that cushioned her fall.

"You bear the countenance of the young spring foal who attempts to rise for the first time, my Lady. ...Is it truly wise that you wander these perilous corridors with such abandon?" An obnoxious tone; nasal in voice, though spoken with a soft, forked tongue. The words held a true concern that lacked in saturation.

Holding herself with what dignity she could muster after realizing that her savior was in reality the creature she spat on without shame, she looked daintily over her exposed shoulder at the darkly robed vizier.

"And when did you crawl from your pit, Lord Gríma?" she inquired acidly.

Eying her naked shoulder shamefully, he stepped closer while answering lazily, "I emerged as one does daily when one cannot find the peace to dream-- upon my own time, my Lady." His pale fingers came millimeters from her upper arm, dancing over the pale green fabric to grasp the deviated sleeve, covering her shoulder while surreptitiously receiving pleasure in touching her with a light intimacy.

She tore her torso from his paws, turning up her nose in disgust.

"My Lady, I did not mean--" he simpered, creeping along in her footsteps.

"Do not speak." She continued toward the main hall, her steely gaze unmoved by the shadow she saw in her peripherals.

Gríma shifted, biting at his lower lip, raising his eyes momentarily to the ceiling and twiddling his thumbs. He did not recall the upcoming turn in the hallway during the wandering of his educated mind, however brief; his chin, subconsciously raised upward with his pale eyes, collided uncomfortably with a stubborn limestone wall.

He yelped, his grey fingertips jumping to his lip. He stared at the red that painted his digits and scowled at the taste of salty iron drowning his tongue. He shook it off with a roll of his eyes, shuffling after Éowyn to the main hall where he found her there, sitting on the stone stoop before the semi-neglected throne, an expression of confusion plastered to her fair face.

He scuttled to her side, drumming his fingertips against each other before remembering that one hand was soiled with half-dried blood. He growled quietly in irritation.

'My Éowyn,' he thought, pondering her lost eyes, 'I gaze upon you and think of what an atrocity I must be when compared to your celestial image. But how you are, dare no one deny it, nor yourself! ...I find my lips unable to form the articulate speeches what form in my clouded mind when you are near, for they have the desire to—to... And my... my tongue, the cruel, oily thing, cannot aid to form these words that wait to enter the world, for it has a desire, oh yes. Many a wish that it may meet any inch, any crevice of your ivory form. Such thoughts, Gríma! Such dwellings! Curse you, curse you!'

His hairless brows furrowed in self-loathing, but regardless he approached; he would reprimand himself at a later date.

"My Lady, there is a matter of which I must spea--"

"Do not speak, Wormtongue."

He sucked in his lower lip, his worried expression intensified to one resembling a small child who had need to relieve himself. Blood from his split lip poured into his mouth as he nervously sucked on it, a wave of the red fluid dribbling down his chin unnoticed. In a final try, he spoke quietly.

"Lady Éowyn, this matter--"

Éowyn turned her head to face him, her cold eyes moistened considerably. "You cannot tame your tongue a moment for a woman to honor her dead?" Her tone showed a brief lack of volume control, a definite sign of distress. Trembling, she tucked a strand of golden hair behind a shy ear, noting the rich red of the blood seeping from the councilman's maw that made him look ever paler. With annoyance, she removed her handkerchief from her brassiere, extending her hand to him.

He was unsure of how to respond respectively, and so crept closer to her with wary eyes. He flinched violently as she moved, dreading her powerful fist when he though she was to strike him.

"Come," she ordered, her hand outstretched still. Her voice was noticeably calmer, and her eyes held low. "Do not make me ask again."

Coming into his mind, Gríma fell to his cloaked knees, inching closer to her knelt form. His chin was lifted by the airy touch of her cool fingertips, the soft Mirkwood silk kissing at the front of his jaw. His hauntingly blue eyes watched her in a way that a deer might a fire-ready hunter. In a moment more, he was relieved of her heavenly touch, and the lower half of his face groomed clean.

"You allow yourself to look a child, Lord Counselor, with blood running freely over you as such," she admonished fluidly, setting the soiled handkerchief aside.

"I apologize, my Lady... Such a fine garment needn't be dirtied with blood as blackened as mine."

"Silence, or I shall think you ungrateful."

He could not meet her authoritative stare, and so made to look upon her naked feet that peeked from the hem of her gown. He gathered himself, standing in his usual coiled stance. Gríma was engulfed by the silence that overtook the hall by storm. He concentrated, closing his extreme eyes. He could hear, or so he fabricated, the slow, strong heartbeat of his beloved within her chest.

'What ecstasy is this, to know my lady's heart pleading freedom from behind her supple breast?'

"Lord Gríma, you may speak of your proposition," Éowyn spoke, her voice detached.

Gríma jumped from his fantasy, his nether regions pulsating in time with the fading sound of the orphaned princess's heart in the back of his twisted mind. He dug within the folds of his robes, grateful to have chosen not to have had his signature fur cloak washed that morning after all, to produce a withered envelope embellished with a familiar seal.

"My King bequeathed this to my possession before he and his gallant men rode to war. It is, to my knowledge and in my own boldness to presume, my liege's final decree as Ruler of Rohan." Gríma chose his words carefully, monitoring her visage, of which her eyes merely widened when he held the parchment letter to her.

Éowyn's nimble fingers peeled the wax seal open without fracture, the letter pulled from its casing and unfolded in haste, nearly resembling a feral warg ripping the entrails of a poor equine corpse. Her dilated pupils danced over the thick paper, her brow's creases intensifying with each sentence.

With the final word, the letter fell from her hands. She sat in momentary quiet before lunging at Gríma, her nails gnawing at his sensitive neck-flesh.

"_Liar! Fiend! You dare deceive me! _My uncle would _never_ decree a fate as so unto me! He wouldn't bestow a word as powerful as his own in order to dash my happiness and force my life into a dreary whirlwind! You lie! You forge his words and lie..." Her frantic screams echoed in the empty foyer, the sting of her sudden animosity drowning out into wild sobs. She sank to the ground, clutching desperately at the dark lining of Gríma's robe.

"Uncle...! Brother... Éomer!" she called, her cries erupting from her like water from a burst dam. Her strong aura wasted away, revealing her innermost self; small, shaking, lost Éowyn.

For a moment too long, Gríma stood above her, mightier than she then, and staring down upon her trembling, golden head. His pupils dilated with the adrenaline coursing through his veins from her attack, he beheld her weakened form, and his mind seemed to disconnect. He was unsure of how to deal with her. Should he hold her? Caress her? Ease her pain? Yes, ease it, but how?

'_She'll likely swat you away like the tick you are_,' his oppressive Right Mind sneered. '_And then what will you do? Go back again, that's what. You know what you must do, Gríma; you must fold her into your cape and steal her away. Fulfill your lust for her milky flesh, and do away with her purity in her moment of vulnerability! You won't have her any other way. Even _I_ am aware of this painfully obvious truth_.'

Wormtongue pressed his palms to his temples, urging the devilish thoughts away. He would know himself as one who cowered under the power of others, one who kissed the hand of the mightiest and sneered at the less intellectual, but he would not know himself as sneering at his own person.

The thoughts that had led him to Saruman's doorstep were forcefully imprisoned at the back of his mind, deep in the darkest precipice and locked in place, so that resurface they could not. No longer did he aim to fulfill his own selfish desires under the power of another, at least not constantly.

His hands trembled when hey met with the downy texture of her golden hair. He looked down his nose at her with his hollow eyes, his injured lower lip bleeding slightly with its slight shaking. He stroked her crown, trailing down the sides of her pinked face that had crumpled with her long suppressed anguish to cup the soft underside of her chin, tilting her face upward.

She made no attempt to struggle free of his handling.

"My Lady," he murmured soothingly to her. His hands guided her upon her weak legs, where she fell into his arms, her cries reaching their zenith before dulling down into deep, hiccuped breathing. He raised his jaw in his arousal of her body being pressed against his own, even in a way that was supposedly consoling. His eyes closed dreamily while he surreptitiously inhaled the scent of her hair.

Éowyn rested her head there against his furry shoulder for a moment, the pulsing in the front of her mind reducing to a muffled sound of her heartbeat in her ears. She exhaled with a conscious shudder, the ache in the back of her raw throat massaged with her swallowing. She knew, through her tremendous grief, what she was doing, whose arms in which she lay.

Slowly her hands crept into the space between her abdomen and Gríma's, righting herself and pushing out of his balmy embrace. Her palms rested upon his stomach lightly, a flush creeping over her tear-stained cheeks.

"I apologize," she said in a hushed tone. She eyed his neck, the normally grey-white skin irritated red and raised from her brief attack. She shunned herself for allowing her emotions to get the better of her, and though she loathed him, she reached for his throat, her fingertips tingling as they touched the angry flesh. "I... am sorry. In my grief, I... It was wrong of me," she managed at last, "to have harmed you."

She retracted her hand, bending to retrieve the stained handkerchief from the seat of her uncle's throne. Avoiding Gríma's gaze, she took a clean corner of the ornate fabric to dab at the freely bleeding cut on his lip.

The adviser swept his thumb gingerly over her cheekbone to erase a stray tear that escaped from her clear eyes. He stared into her face, and she drew her eyes upward to look back, her dabbing slowing until stopping completely.

"My Lady, forgive my audacity. I should have found a time with less distress in which to give my King's final will to you." His voice was steady, expertly masking his excitement. "Though I shall be so forward as to plead my innocence; I did not forge the document. My King had given it to me already sealed and with signature."

Éowyn's expression churned with her discomfort at the decree's mention. Her heart had reached its

limit while reading it, especially seeing the words in her uncle's own hand. She had caressed the velvety paper, worn with age and keep, knowing that those were the last words that her uncle had ever written, not to her knowledge that they were much older than she presumed.

He saw her furrowed brow and fidgeted nervously. He paced about, encircling her in step as a vulture might above its prey. "Surely my Lady would not deprive your late uncle of his dying proposition? Pray you ponder it, Lady Éowyn, pray you." He paused, standing behind her. "And where my Lady chooses to honor the desire of her last blood, she will need to make her mark upon the document."

Gríma turned his heel to leave her with her thoughts, even though he would secretly spy on her from some dark crevice.

Éowyn collected her uncle's final will, walking back to her chamber in a paced manner. Once inside, she cracked her door behind her and sat at her desk, the parchment set before her.

"_My dearest Éowyn_," her uncle's more intimately used, less ornate handwriting read, "_Should you come to review this letter, it would be in the event of my succumbing to great illness or death. Think not of these words what remain after my throne has emptied as a final will to you; think of these words as a last promise asked of an old man on late terms. _

_You must face the event of my absence with the supreme strength that to all of Man's knowledge rests within your heart, for I leave to you all of the power that was once mine. I give to you, my Éowyn, the gift of Rohan's many children and their land. Take them into your hands, nurture them, as they are now your children as they were, during my time, my own. _

_Know that ever since you were brought to me alongside your brother, whose trembling hands you held with such strong compassion, I have thought you as my own daughter. Know that, no matter how incredulous they are, all of my actions in your life have been dealt with nothing but the highest concern for your well-being. And so it is now, my sister-daughter, that I make this final request:_

_In my adviser, Gríma, you will find great confidence. He has never guided me down a path that I regret, at least to my presumption, and so he will lead you. His words hide no lies, his hands drip with no blood, and his heart beats without evil, and it is with such words that I hope to lift your worries. I ask you this in all good intent, that you wed Gríma, son of Gálmód, with your ascent to the throne. I ask that you take to heart his words, but do not rely on them alone. I ask that you keep him close to you, in mind and in action, for no one's will runs closer to my own than that of Gríma. _

_It is only for your sake and yours alone that I ask so boldly of you, Éowyn, in the hour of my absence. Your mind is still your mind, and your heart still your heart, and so will be the heart of your people. Hold true to this while your hands mold Rohan into a land of greatness, one that I could never be more proud of._

_May the guidance and mercy of Manw__ë__ grace you and the generations that come._

_Théoden, son of Théngel ._"

Her fingers held lightly the stem of her quill. With a fluid movement, she immersed the tip into her inkwell, holding the utensil with hesitance beneath her uncle's signature. A drop of the dark liquid dropped onto the parchment, the paper drinking it quickly, making the mark permanent.

"And permanent shall be any mark of mine, as well," she muttered to herself. With her head pounding painfully, a queasy feeling bubbling in the lower part of her stomach and salt tears stinging at her eyes, she lowered her wrist to the paper.

"_Éowyn, daughter of Éomund_," she printed in a timely manner. Her quill was laid upon its rest while she stared down at her work. She covered her mouth with her palm, her eyes blinking out the tears that fought their way out as she squeezed her lids closed. She had resigned her fate.

'But I will not be caged,' she thought with a weary yet determined resolve. She wiped her face free of her momentary upset before taking the signed order in her hands and making for Gríma's chamber.

She stood before the closed door of the man she was then bound to by her own courtesy of granting her uncle his final wish. Her grip tightened on the paper while she tapped gently upon the smooth wood.

A sliver of the pallid face of the Wormtongue was shown in the light of the corridor. Seeing who summoned him, Gríma opened the door to his threshold.

"My Lady, what--" he began as though speaking to a child.

She wordlessly thrust the decree into his hands, her brow furrowed and lips pursed. Her livid expression nearly instantly melted into one of despondency, her silver eyes downcast.

He glanced from her face only for a moment to spy her finely scrawled signature of approval beneath his former monarch's. He forced back the sneer of joy that threatened to curl his grey lips. His eyes taking on a compassionate stare, he returned to her crestfallen visage.

"It is a just thing you do, my Lady," he uttered, in a way that he could have spoken to a baby.

"Say nothing more of it," she ordered curtly, her throat aching with emotion. "I shall be crowned within the week." She turned on her heel, walking upright with one hand against the stone wall for support in a dignified fashion. Over her shoulder, she demanded in a stately voice, "Send for the priest in no less than three days."

Watching her walk with such an air of grace and power about her, he replied dreamily, "Consider it done, my Éowyn..."

* * *

Saruman bellowed to the seemingly endless ceiling of the Tower of Barad Dür. He had been imprisoned there for nearly a month following the war in which all of his cherished Uruk-hai were eaten by the arrows, swords and spears of the men of Rohan and their comrades. He dared not go near balconies or windows of any sort, for a fear lying deep within his cold belly that the mighty Ents, who had nearly doubled in number since they had destroyed his Uruk-hai production site might decide to end his misery and destroy his place of refuge.

The Palantír perched dangerously at the center of his dwelling place had been smoldering with the malignant energy of Sauron even more so since Saruman's defeat, causing the White Wizard to avoid communicating with his master for fear of elimination.

He sat then in his library, a map of Mordor laid out before him. His deranged brown eyes stared frantically upon the ink sketch of the Eye of Sauron, which seemed to be staring back. Hastily, he threw the map from his sight, holding his forehead in his wrinkled hands.

"Fetch me my flask of mead, Worm," he barked. A moment of silence passed, the absence of thick robes scraping hurriedly across the rugs or a weak 'Yes, my Lord' unnoticed at first. "Do you seek punishment, Worm? ...I demand an answer!"

And then it slowly blossomed within his frazzled mind: his servant was not trapped inside of Barad Dür with him. That would have explained his storage of food remaining in decent supply, although Gríma would usually go without, or consume what meager ration he was given. It would also have given answer to the unusual silence cloaking his dwelling.

"You cancerous dog," he snarled of Gríma. He slammed his fists upon the tabletop with rage; he had heard news from a sentry that he had released (a moth) that Éowyn not only lived to the day, however ill she was, but she was to become Lady of Rohan.

Without dignity, protection or servant, Saruman's mind dove into a frantically educated state of spite. He closed his eyes, entering his slave's mind once again as before.

'If no one else will fall before Saruman, then you shall suffer the most,' he decreed darkly, stepping into the gallery-like inner-mind of Wormtongue, the many emotive images of Éowyn's face still decorating the space.

Glancing about the otherwise white, endless space, he spied something new floating past a memory of Éowyn's tear-ridden face resting upon Gríma's shoulder. Walking across the white floor, he captured the wandering memory in his magical grip.

It was a memory of Théoden's final decree. Gríma had opened it carefully, reading it to himself with fiendish delight before sealing it closed once more, therefor storing the climax of the letter into his mind to think about during his moments alone.

'And so the snake will marry the filly,' Saruman chuckled darkly, releasing the memory. He could foresee, albeit unclearly, the prospect of an heir being produced of the union. Singular in nature, as well.

His bearded lips curled into a venomous sneer as he exited his servant's mind. 'If I cannot bereave you of a reason to live instantaneously, then I shall wound your dreams with a precious death and seal her fate in an unavoidable bind.'

"Yes, your prize may have escaped death's kiss once before, but now it approaches without interference. With your happiness resting upon having finally obtained the heart of Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, it shall be stolen by the birth of the heir to Rohan's throne that is cradled within her womb. With the birth of you son rides the death of your 'White Lady.' I, Saruman of the White Council, draw upon the great power of the Dark Lord Sauron to mark your fate. By the power of the Great Eye, let it be so!" he chanted at the top of his lungs, throwing his arms upward in climax of the dark magic flowing from his very soul.

A wild shine in his deep brown eyes made the once gloriously untainted White Wizard seem to be completely consumed by the supremacy of Sauron's disembodied being.

* * *

Two days following her acceptance of her fate, Éowyn was crowned the new Lady of Rohan by the town priest and an upstanding member of the Senate of Edoras. Her people gathered before the doors of Meduseld, of which the once cold, lonely halls had been reborn with a motherly warmth that even the horses could sense, as they all remained considerably less excitable.

The man of the Senate read aloud the speech that honored her predecessor, Théoden, and which acknowledged her as next rightful heir to the throne of Rohan. The speech went on for little more than an hour, the representative reading aloud from the parchment scroll in a timely, well pronounced manner, and covered more points of interest, such as the rights of becoming Lady of Rohan, duties of Her Ladyship, and various underlying subjects on fair use of power.

The moment that her uncle's crown met with her downy, golden waves, she silently wept at the surge of overpowering nostalgia that overtook her. She recalled a memory that had been long asleep inside of her mind from her early childhood.

_She sat in her uncle's lap on the side balcony, watching her older brother, who was only nine years old then, practice his swordsmanship with a squire of Gamling's. She stared with longing, resting her craned neck against Théoden's chest. _

"_Why can't _I_ play with swords like Éomer, uncle?" she had asked innocently, though with a noticeable sting of jealousy in her tone._

"_You, my dear, are meant to study language and the arts. If it is one thing that my sister asked of me, it was that you become a proper lady in a more timely manner than she," he chuckled lightly in reply._

"_But I don't _like_ reading poetry or writing! I want to learn how to fight!" She slid from his lap, crossing her arms in irritation. Looking over her shoulder briefly to see how her father figure was going to respond to her disappointment, she spied his golden crown sitting atop his head. Her interest was caught, and she forgot her tantrum._

"_Uncle, your crown... Isn't it heavy to wear?"_

_Théoden had hidden his amusement from her tantrum, but at her question his entertained smile was contained no longer. He lifted the crown from his brow slowly, the grandiose metal material glittering in the beam of sunlight that passed over it. He extended the signature item to his curious niece._

_Her face glowed in wonder when the circle of ornate gold was placed into her eager fingertips. Staring at the design for a moment (of a trio of horses chasing one another on each side, then a man extending his hand to one of the equine creatures without threat), she lowered the ornament onto her head in hesitation. It was nearly two sizes too large for her, but from what she could tell, it wasn't as weighty as she had imaged._

"_It's not heavy at all, uncle!" she exclaimed in delight._

_Taking the crown back gently, he smiled at her with a hand on her cheek, saying in a heartfelt tone, "Ah, but it feels all the heavier to me with the responsibilities that it carries." _

_She sat herself in his lap one more time, watching her older brother defeat the squire with a triumphant call. _

_"One day, maybe you will know the true weight of this crown, Éowyn," he murmured as Éomer ran towards them in victory._

"_Do you really think that I could be Lady someday?" she whispered into his ear._

"_I believe that you will become a great Lady of Rohan, who can defend her people from behind her blade as well as charm them with her poetry, even as she loathes it so," he chuckled in reply._

The words of her uncle on that day had paved her way to her striving to become what she was to that very moment: a woman who was more than a woman; a Shieldmaiden, so as to aid her people against anything to cause them harm. She had, from the birth of that memory, vowed to be more than just a pretty face, more than just fair of skin and desired of body.

And so she had become. She stood before her people, the people of the field and of the horse, her people of Rohan, with her uncle's crown perched atop her head of white-gold locks that were mussed by a playful wind, her arms outstretched and cold tears kissing her cheeks. The moment that she had mused over as a child had become her fate, indeed, and while the townsfolk pooled at the base of her dwelling cheered her, throwing flowers and calls of celebration, her chest felt sick inside, for she also knew of another twist in her destiny that had yet to come.

And come it did.

Éowyn awoke in a cold fever, her eyes wide with an unknown horror. She knew it, deep within the icy pits of her stomach.

'It is today... It is _that_ day...' she reminded herself, attempting to quell the feeling of nausea rising up into the back of her throat. She had little time alone to herself that morning; her handmaidens and nurses all scrambled to prepare her in time for her...for _that_, the moment that Éowyn wished death could free her from.

Bathed in soothing, steamy waters with fresh honeysuckle blossoms sprinkled throughout for nearly an hour before dressed in a white gown unlike any she had ever donned before, Éowyn had mere minutes left of freedom of self before she would be bound by law to the man-creature that received not even a breath of her concern.

She sat then before a mirror as tall as herself, three handmaidens buzzing about her. She noted two searching for some missing piece to her costume, while the third, the calmest of the trio and none other than Éobeta, braided two strands of her hair that were joined into a single braid at the back and down the length of her hair.

Pleased with her work, Éobeta added a pale green ribbon to the simple yet beautiful style, and, stepping before Éowyn to gaze upon her, placed a single forget-me-not blossom behind her right ear. Éobeta smiled, her eyebrows arched at the sight of her Lady's innocent beauty.

"My Lady..." she whispered.

"The outfit is unbecoming of me, I agree," Éowyn grimaced, looking away.

"No, my Lady," the blond, young maid murmured passionately, "I do not believe that an angel could be more resplendent."

The blond monarch looked to her maid in brief confusion, an involuntarily shy smile taking the place of her bewildered expression. She nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear, toying with the hem of her low-hanging sleeve. She peered in slight awe of her own reflection after Éobeta joined the other two maids in their frantic search.

There she sat upon a pouf made of fine Elven silk before a magnificent chamber. Her garment was not a mere dress, but a gown of great splendor; colored in white of a nearly translucent shade with a neckline that plunged dangerously close to her soft breasts in a heart-shaped fashion. Her sleeves resembled those of a priestess; long, open and flowing. About the circumference of her bodice was an elegant leaf pattern, embroidered in gold, and the same pattern followed at the hems of her sleeves and of the dress itself. A simple necklace bearing her father's crest sat atop her collarbone upon a golden chain, and then, suddenly, her trio of handmaidens brought a pair of white lambskin slippers to her feet.

She was complete; her costume was at last presentable, so that her performance could be brought to stage.

That was how she came to stand there upon the topmost step of the temple honoring Manwë, placed high for her spectators to see. Spectators they were, indeed; six councilmen from the Senate, a scribe so as to record the event's happenings and the priest himself, as well as Éola at Éowyn's side to aid her.

The priest, called Awáin, prompted that Éowyn face her small audience, as her betrothed was about to make his presence known.

She could hear the scribe's raw quill scratching at the parchment, one of the elderly councilman's wheezed breathing and her own heartbeat reach a deafening volume in her ears. She knew that she had to hold strong, for if she were to lose consciousness... If she were to seem weak then, of all times, she would be branded as weak for the remainder of her rule. She lifted her chin, taking a haughty appearance.

It came. The shadow crawled through the grand oak doors separating the room of prayer from the lobby, his usual color palette of black upon black unchanged, yet his attire tossed aside for something more suited to "royal appeal."

Gríma glanced about, his eyes that held the fair blue of the sky draped in a veil of pride to mask his nearly cataclysmic state of mind. His crouched posture remained as he crept forward, his grey skin glistening with light sweat. Raven waves of hair stuck to his forehead in places where the moisture ran rampant, making the dark rings beneath his eyes appear ever more prominent.

For the first few seconds of his arrival in the chamber, his hollow eyes were locked on the sextet of noteworthy men. They did not pay him a single glance, for all of their eyes, if not half, were lustily drawn to the virgin queen standing before them.

Gríma's stare did not stand long before joining them. He beheld her there, standing at a higher ground than he, almost as though she were upon a pedestal for display. His mouth went dry at her image; so innocent and yet so unforgiving, waiting for him to claim her without her full consent. He paused there in his stride merely to allow her matronly image to become forever stained into his mind. He was brought from his trance by his legs, clad in black leather trousers with thick leather straps binding the loose material to accommodate his thin, yet shapely legs, which trudged onward toward her as though with magnetic pull.

At long last, Gríma came to stand beside her, his hands shaking at his sides. The black cape that draped across his shoulders was not nearly thick enough to his taste, and so left him with the odd feeling of draft upon his ghostly skin. The ornate black lace that covered his arms to the middle of his palms did little to warm him, even with the black wolf-fur vest that adorned him topping it.

The priest raised his scroll from which he read various passages of Rohannic religious tales pertaining to faith in love, youth and virginity in an animated, devout fashion.

Éowyn fought to maintain her stability. Faintness clouded her mind, and her legs attempted with near success of reverting to their previous countenance of a newborn fawn standing for the first time; unsteady and awkward. She would not have any knowledge that her opposite, Gríma, was also having poor control over his appendages and state of mind.

Awáin's wizened yet still youthful eyes glanced from the golden, fair Éowyn to the pallid, cadaverous Wormtongue during a fruitful pause following an immense reading of marital rights and duties. Even he, a man of the Valar, could not deny his gross curiosity as to what kind of rulers the odd pair would make to Rohan. He knew of Gríma's previous, less desirable acts along with his untrustworthy persona, and though he could not help but wonder, he stopped himself. To doubt was to tarry, and there were more important matters at hand. He found his place; the exchanging of vows.

"And now," he turned to Gríma with an oddly encouraging glance, "Gríma, son of Gálmód, how do you offer yourself to my Lady Éowyn?"

Gríma swallowed, his throat no more moist than the soil of Mount Doom's summit. His darkly-ringed eyes stared at the holy man a moment too long before he bowed his oily, though freshly groomed, head. His dark locks fell over his pallid visage, giving him a meeker disposition. The control quivered within his chest. Gríma dropped fluidly to his knees before Éowyn, his pale eyes narrowed as he gazed up at her as though she was enshrouded by a blinding light. Control shuddered once more, and then dissolved, allowing his passion and eagerness to flow freely at last.

"I offer myself to my Lady as I am, yet even now I know she dreads to accept me. My offering is of soul, and purely is of a search for my Lady's recognition. I ask not for your compassion, your pity, your hatred, nor your will to know the innermost person of this sorry creature that is Gríma, son of Gálmód, no. I... I simply ask," Gríma's eyes softened, as though he was beginning to adjust to the light, "that my Lady accept my humble offering of a despicable, foul shell of a great man that wishes to redeem what small thimble-full of reverence he could have within you."

"...All that I can offer of myself, mayhap if you would be so generous to humor such a loathsome being as I, is the oath of determination and," his pupils penetrated deeply into her own, his words slowed in a dreamy state, "faultless loyalty."

Oh, how he felt the words leaping from his blackened core in which they had so long rested. The adviser thought that he wouldn't be able to silence his ramblings of his long concealed love of her for another day or two following. He had managed a pause in order to breathe greedily, and when his colorless lips parted against to resume his romantic spiel, Awáin found it opportune to intersect.

"And how does my Lady Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, offer herself to Lord Gríma, son of Gálmód?" the priest inquired, glancing searchingly to her.

The fair haired young woman looked upon her dark counterpart from beneath her eyelids, like a teacher would survey an unworthily deemed student's work. Her gaze suddenly intensified as she peered at him.

"I do not offer myself," she said simply.

The gathering of Senate goers murmured in quieted disbelief. Lady of Rohan or not, Éowyn had just insulted the priest as well as her future husband.

Yet she was not phased by their noises of outrage. Instead, she continued coolly.

"I do not offer myself as a bride, nor as a woman. I do not offer myself as a Lady of Rohan, nor as a Shieldmaiden." She paused briefly to observe the confused expressions of her audience.

"Then how does my Lady offer herself to my Lord this day?" Awáin took the quick silence to ask.

"She does not. What a proposition, Father, to set me as a token before this man to take as he pleases. Here I know, as anyone inhabiting my court would, that this man," she gestured pointedly at Gríma, who remained knelt before her, "would have me without question. I detest the thought, being named like a grand treasure might." She exhaled, giving her feminist pride leeway to her hidden weakness for a single, ill moment. "Yet... I digress, for I shall be taken nonetheless." Her eyes bore a sadness that was alien to her usual proud nature while stiff silence overtook her celestial image.

"And so my Lady offers herself. Doth her Lord accept her?" Awáin glanced over his scroll to the darkly colored pool of man-creature aside the heavenly maiden.

"I would quicker take my Lady than the throne to rule all of Middle-Earth," he spun, his tongue rolling over his own words in a velvety fashion. He bit his lower lip while he righted himself; it took nearly all of whatever control he had rationed within him following his lust-fueled rambling to restrain the excitement festering beneath his skin. To think that with a few simple words, Éowyn would finally be his-- or she would be lost to him forever.

Awáin lowered his scroll, looking to her in a sagely manner. His words were softly spoken. "My Lady hears the offering that my Lord proposes. Doth she accept him?"

The group of Senate members buzzed almost inaudibly, their eyes wide with anticipation. The mass of them considered the moment at hand: the snake of an adviser to their late, beloved king had just pledged what little self-worth he had, along with his unstaled loyalty, if such a claim could be held to any true value considering his reputation in and outside of the court, to the White Lady of Rohan. She was known throughout her land for her cold, lonely heart as well as her hatred for the man who had sat before her feet. The two persons melded into a hearty feeling of undying inquiry amongst the six of them.

How would their lonely-hearted lady answer, they wondered, if at all? Should she, considering the event in its entirety was within her last remaining relative's final wishes? The men dared not turn their eyes away, stifling their breathing in order to hear each word.

Éowyn looked upon Gríma, her expression one of utter defeat. She no longer had any choice. She could no longer banish him from her sight merely because of her loathing for him. She could not have her brother and his guard seal his path from her when she sickened of his shadow stalking her every step. She had no way to escape.

Shuddering breath in tow, she parted her lush lips.

"...I... shall."

It was all that she could manage to force from her mouth, the hesitant, two-word reply.

The holy man waited a moment to ensure that neither of his patrons were to burst into a sudden, lengthy bout before he took in the silence that swallowed them. He, himself, was somewhat speechless in the sum of it. Indeed, the land's most unlikely duo had just announced and taken one another's offerings of self, even though some offerings were not as willingly given.

"So given by the Valar, this union shalt be blesséd by peace, grace and spirit alike. May all troubles wilt as new seeds of passion and prestige are sew into thy soil of matrimony," Awáin finished, his tone smoothed with a breath of relief. His eyes, withered with the years, somehow came to foresee unusual albeit unimaginable events to fall upon the final steps of the odd bond. He raised his scroll, closing it grandly then to conclude. He pressed his fingertips to his lips, then gently tapped them to Éowyn's forehead.

"May the Gods bless you, Lady Éowyn," he prayed before straightening his tired form. He stood away from the pair, awaiting their final seal: the kiss.

Éowyn turned to face her self-proclaimed enemy. Her eyes were saturated acid. Her chest was filled with ice and weighted with heavy stones, but she knew not why. She longed to be rid of the place, to gather up the skirts of her Elvish silk dress and barricade herself away from the man-creature chained to her as her "husband," yet she did not, for should she, her dishonor would extend to her priest, beyond the grave to her beloved uncle and then to herself.

Gríma, whose very innards threatened to explode with the deadly hot air of his triumph, examined his prize. His hands flexed and curled into fists within his cape's folds. His everlasting greed for her was proving difficult to tame. He stepped closer to her, slowly, as the hunter would approach the wounded deer. He reached out with his chilled fingertips, brushing the goldspun hair from her neck. The way his luminous blue eyes beheld her, one might think he had witnessed the birth of an angel.

Éowyn felt his touch upon her, and though she started to shrink back, she did not move from it. Her skin crawled under that familiar touch, the same trembling caress of the same disgraceful serpent had danced over her flesh on the same night that her Théodred was cradled by Mandos. Her throat ached in its attempt to rebel against the tears that threatened. Her head leaned into the hand of the man whose heavy-lidded eyes had lusted after her for so long. The soft pain weakened her at his disposal, and she loathed herself then.

In the grey silence, a ray of sunlight did tenderly shine.

"May I be so presumptuous as to speak?"

All eyes, among them the grateful, frightened eyes of the child Éowyn, came to see the lonely bridesmaid, Éola, standing erect in the shadow.

"If I may say, my king, Théoden, knew justice and was adored by all. His fatherly hands cradled the whole of us. To disrespect him now would bring a great ill omen," she crafted solemnly, her hands folded with pristine tranquility before her.

"Of what disrespect do you speak, my child?" Awáin inquired, his sage tone shrouded in panic.

"My king was of stern tradition. In his respect, he would have my Lord and Lady consummate their marriage, even in such fond ways as a kiss, with clandestine nature, Father," Éola supplied. Her vibrantly green stare, the plainness and yet profound beauty of an open field within them, bore no lie. "Following my king's belief, my Lord and Lady would complete their union within the privacy of their chambers."

Pausing a moment to think over the matter, Awáin nodded deeply in her favor. "My child, you are bright to bring last honor to our king. The Valar have witnessed your well deeds, and bless this day. Let Théoden King's desires, however until now unspoken, remain honored."

Gríma's hand lowered slowly from his bride's jaw, his eyes clearly disappointed. Though festering in the womb of his Right Mind, a devilish wave of thoughts lifted his spirits. Alone he would be, completely left to no one but the company of his desired to do with as he pleased, as the man's rights were. His Right Mind molded the situation into one of great ecstasy yet to come.

* * *

**Hello. (*ahem*) I don't think any number of apologies could make up for my rather unnecessarily lengthy absence. I usually take my "vacations" toward the end of my fictions. Suspense, and all that. I don't know what came over me. Oh well. Here I am, though. :]**

***Gríma's "Right Mind" - his "shoulder devil." I thought that a remnant of his past self, the conniving, thieving, lecherous Gríma who worked for Saruman shouldn't be _completely_ banished. Where would the fun in that be? "Right Mind" distorts Gríma's otherwise less conniving, lecherous and thieving (but still pretty conniving, thieving and lecherous) into ideas of a much more devious, juicy vision. "Right Mind" is Gríma's personal snake of Eden, one might say.**

***Manwë- the King of the Gods of the Valar. Google him for more information, as it's quite a bit to explain here.**

***Mandos- the God of the Underworld and Dead (Valar). He is Manwë's brother. For more info, Google him.**

**If I failed to explain anything else noteworthy in this chapter, please ask of it and I shall promptly scoff at my own carelessness and answer. :D**


	5. Philogyny

**(5)**

**(Warning: this particular installment is rated M.)**

The thick liquid lapping over her head brought her into a nostalgic state of calm. She could hear her own heartbeat and the muffled voice of her assistant; all of her thoughts had long melted away with the hot bath she had submersed herself into, almost as though she had re-entered her mother's womb for a few spare moments.

Her lungs began to feel weary at last, and so she emerged from the "womb," wiping the steaming water from her eyelids fluidly.

Éowyn was groomed in silence by the hand of a single maiden, her choice servant, Éola. Her lids seemed that much more close to dropping, immersing her into a sleep that she long desired, wanting to end the dreaded day where it stood. Alas, she could not end the sunlight as one could end a life, she thought with exhausted logic. Her hair, dried, scented, and undecorated, draped over her smooth shoulders.

Éola dressed her with skill, deciding upon a modest sleeping gown with which to ease her ruler's obvious discontent with the impending situation.

It seemed all too soon that her servant left her alone to wait, or rather to brood in her last moments of purity, within her late uncle's sleeping quarters. She welcomed the heated air swirling around her naked ankles from the fire lit in the mouth of the hearth. The translucent material making up the sleeves covering her arms gave her no shield to hide the goosebumps that rose over her porcelain flesh. She drew a white cape over her torso, the pure shade of the cloth giving her an ethereal appearance.

She turned her back to the oak wood door that became ever more ominous with each passing second from her newly gifted husband's delayed arrival. The flickering tongues of the fire gave her ease, at least some. Her eyes were weary; how inviting her uncle's down mattress would be to her back, long rigid from perfected posture during the day's drawn out events.

'Now I am left moments to myself before I am taken; before I, Éowyn, daughter of Eomund, am rid of my purity by the embodiment of all things shadowy and capricious. I shall not be truant this hour, nor an hour following.' As she encouraged herself, she relaxed her back, giving her mind a pillowfall. 'I will bring honor to my uncle, and I shall not stray. Though my heart shall not ever come to embrace the person that is the Wormtongue, I can no longer disguise my fate as anything more than it has become.'

Gríma had longed enshrouded himself near the door in which he had surreptitiously entered. His stare could nearly penetrate her where she stood, he watched her so, as a sword would pierce a cushion. Swallowing one, twice, he stepped forth with shuddering ardor. He found meek confidence in his appearance; his signature furred cloak had been scented with lavender, a calming herb to reduce his numerous stresses as well as to hide the truth that the garment had not been washed in numerous weeks. He had bathed himself briskly with chilled waters to rejuvenate his exhausted muscles, and a minor scent suggested by a maid who had appeared in the middle of his bath, Éobeta, of earthen nutmeg.

As he immersed himself into the dim light of the fire, he beheld her there. He could see, from the corner of her fair face, vestal vexation. Brought to his thin, grey lips, a lustful smirk matched his hungering azure stare. He could feel the anxiety wafting from her as the pheromones from a mare in heat catch the attention of giddy yearlings. The simple sight of her standing in the firelight, the weight of worry, hatred and newfangled pride tightening her back into a straight line, awaiting his appearance from his ever permanent perch within the places that the light cared not to grace brought out a want in him, a want that he could, at the waste of what felt like centuries, satiate.

Éowyn stiffened noticeably when the delicate curve of her shoulders were cupped by cadaverous hands. She forced an expression of serenity, lifting her jaw with the light nuzzling of her possessor's nose into her neck. She restrained her skin's desire to shiver, using all of her might to forbid tears of loathing.

Gríma inhaled her heavenly scent of honeysuckle and lavender, his eyelids fluttering in arousal. From her milky flesh, he noted, a barely detectable aroma of hot bathwater did radiate. His grip on her tightened with a wave of brief pleasure before he regained what little composure he had brought into the chamber with him.

Éowyn turned all too quickly under his hands, facing his ghostly visage with a painted expression of modesty. "My Lord, I wondered how long you would force me to wait."

His desire plummeted into a dull flame of what it had been seconds ago. His sickly face showed confused irritation. He released her, studying her face for some form of amusement.

"What is this facade you intend to charm me with?" he hissed.

"I know not of what you mean, my Lord." She faked an innocent stare. It was truth, she had decided to humor him with an illusion of what she was, or how she presumed that she was, inside of her wedded spouse's perverted mind as a ploy to aid herself through the night's fortellings.

He scoffed incredulously at her. "You are indeed the utter description of beauty, my Lady. You...are the epitome of the desires of the darkest man; so pure, limitless, powerful, free," his voice lightened, as though he were nearly ensnared with depressed emotion, his hand reaching to cup her jaw, "and so cruel." His cold eyes scrutinized her.

"I would live better days as you have treated me for so long than under such an act, my Éowyn," he grumbled, turning his back to her.

Grateful, though secret, of his release of her, she took full advantage of the statement he made. She straightened, her annoyance bubbling over.

"What gall have you to name me yours? I will never become your possession, Wormtongue. Merely by following the final desire of my last blood am I bound to you!" she growled, removing her cloak. Her blood had heated with the burst of her anger.

The feeling of separation she brought out using her hateful words stimulated his lust; the thought of her being ever slightly from his grasp made his greed of her intensify as though it had never depleted. He turned again to her, closing the distance between them with great steps. His long, pale fingers grasped at the side of her face, bringing their lips to junction with an angry fire.

Éowyn ripped her jaws from his grasp, wiping her soiled lips feverishly. She glared at him, walking back in time to his step of advance until at last she crawled backwards across the mattress, her hate-filled stare never once deviating from his pallid visage. Her luscious lips were made into a thin line, her golden waves falling around her celestial face, giving her an intimidated wildness comparable to a wounded predator. Knowing that, despite her willfulness, she must submit to the creature that advanced her, she prepared herself for what would be, to her, undesired intrusion upon her maidenhood.

She found herself on her back, staring up with prominent enmity at the bewildered face of her nemesis. Éowyn found that he had stopped his advances on her to gaze upon her in a manner that further perturbed her. She searched his expression for some hint of emotional change, yet she could see nothing.

"Why do you stall? I surmised that you would have disrobed me with your teeth and done away with my chastity before this time!" she barked incredulously. Her icy eyes beheld him with refutation, and she observed with a glimmer of amusement how his already sickly countenance had become moistened with a cold sweat.

He glazed his fingertips over her neck in the same trembling, almost pitying manner, his pupils contracted. 'It is merely that I never surmised that a creature like myself would ever gain the privilege to—touch—you with such freedom... And here you are living beneath my fingertips,' he mused with disbelief, tracing her jugular vein idly.

"I stall for no reason, save for your own, my Éowyn," he lied in his usual serpentine tone.

She flushed visibly, scowling. Her hands twitched, longing to swat his petting away and pummel him. Raising her chin, she stared back at him from beneath her lids, giving herself a more dignified appearance from her degrading position. She knew of no reason why then, aside from that they were alone and that she had no chance of escaping, she could not look from his face. She began to puzzle herself when she examined him; how his eyes were so displaced and yet so focused... Their luminous blue color reminded her of the clearest sky moments before the greatest storm. His flesh, so blanched that it gave the illusion of being grey, magnified the bruise-like rings beneath his eyes, which told her a sad tale of his nightly fears.

Involuntarily, her fingers crept from her side to touch his lips; his reaction gave her wordless amusement at the power, to her realization, that she had so long held over him. His lips, though thin, without flush and subtly chapped from lack of drink, would make her finest wool gown feel of burlap.

"Though I have allowed our union so desired by Theoden King, bless his spirit that ascends, does this in no way entail a sudden dispersal of my loathing on your behalf," she muttered, seriously spoken with the split weights of bewilderment and exhaustion pressing down upon her mind.

An astonishingly blue eye opened halfway. Gríma inclined his head so that it was his cheek that rested beneath her fingertips. " I would not have expected to go forth in life under any other condition, my Lady."

He knew that what he spoke was, quite bluntly, the most prodigiously false statement that had ever dared to utter, and he received only the most minor of chest pains from saying it so, yet he could foresee that the pains would intensify with the time that he would from then on be able to share with her. From that day on, she, the absolute in his otherwise bleak and hopeless life, was his to call his own, if only to himself. He could, finally, find friendship with his slumber, for he no longer had to stay roused for evenings in a row to plot the detailed deaths of each of her potential suitors. Oh, the things that he could accomplish in the end because she was in his possession...

Éowyn knew that he was lying through his ever-so-slightly yellowed teeth. She long held the knowledge of Gríma's love for her, how it was nothing short of obsession. An unknown emotion rose inside of her chest, pressing against her lungs like a cold stone. Was it...disappointment?

'_Disappointment?_ Whatever for?' she demanded of herself. She jerked her hand away, averting her confused eyes. She felt a sea of feelings long unknown to her began to drown her mind.

'It is because I have exhausted myself that I feel this,' she assured herself firmly. 'No other explanation is key. ...I am no longer in my right mind. I shall admit that I know pity for this creature. He has forever had unyielding faith in me. He does not see the mistakes that I am hesitant to make. How many lifetimes shall I be able to continue this lie which roots itself within my destiny?' A shiver wrenched her body; the deep night was closing over them, severely diminishing the warmth in the stone establishment.

Wormtongue observed her as she made herself comfortable upon what would become, in due time, their marriage bed, or so he was determined to believe. He swallowed, his throat parched. He cast his eyes aside, perched on the edge of the bed. He rose slowly, lighting a fire within the mouth of the fire-pit to salvage what heat was left in the arctic interior. He removed his lambskin boots reluctantly, hesitant to accept the chill of the marble floor beneath his pallid soles. His mind was weary, yet he desired to make just the one advance toward his true love. However...

Éowyn could see, in the dim light of the fire's flickering tongues, that her former adviser was not as slight of frame as his ever-present black cloak gave him to be. As he straightened himself, she noted that his legs reminded her rather of a toad's; they seemed longer in length than they truly were, and in his black trousers all the more thin, however quite shapely with lean muscle and a high calf. She noted his curious, naked feet; the toes pale and spindly, and the second toe longer in length than the largest toe on each foot, the remaining toes descending in length in perfect "stairwell" form.

"Does the Lady desire supplementary warmth as well?" he inquired suggestively of her.

"No," she answered calmly, albeit quickly. She paused, making an expression of slightly perturbed nature. "You...may cease to address me so formally," she mused a moment, hastily adding, "whilst we are only in the company of one another." She shocked herself, instantly regretting what she had just allowed.

Gríma, dumbfounded, blinked with widened eyes. He lowered his oily head in recognition of her word. "If that is my L –" He stopped, beginning again after recalling the change. "If that is your wish, my Éowyn, then so shall it be."

She did not appreciate that, his possessive pronoun coupled with her name. She did not appreciate it in the slightest. She could not, despite that, ask any more from him that night.

"Bid you lay down," she invited distantly. She lay on her back, pulling the rich furs over her breasts. She did not acknowledge him as he position himself next to her, although he was a considerable measure from her. The bed could have slept at least two others with the space that Éowyn and the Wormtongue made between themselves.

Éowyn wondered why the man who perspired like a stallion at her mere breath did not spring upon her in an attempt to embezzle her virginity. She reminded herself to be grateful for this, for she was without energy enough to fight him off.

"You still hold that you stall for my sake, do you?" she interrogated in a sleep-ridden tone.

A moment of eerie silence passed before a quieted response was detected from across the bed, a wistful "Yes."

"And what gives my sake privilege for being honored within your deceitful heart? I would have surmised that my purity would have long been relieved of me, if I predict your devilish mind well enough." Her tone was cross, and with the ever descending pressure of hibernation upon her, made her sound like a pouting young girl.

A shuffling under the furs to her right coupled with a harsh exhale of breath educated her that he did, indeed, fantasize of it still, yet he did not act upon it.

"You do know me, my Éowyn, but merely as the sun knows the moon," he murmured.

Éowyn was struck. "The sun... does not know the moon," she retorted slowly – _timidly_.

Gríma turned to gaze upon her, the raging fire casting heavenly shadow over her fair, celestial visage. "Indeed."

She, too, turned her head, looking upon him. Her brow was furrowed, however approaching dormancy she was, so revealed by her cold eyes. She scrutinized him in the dim light in which he lay. Her hatred did not falter, but she was undecided as to what to make of him.

"As the sun knows not the moon, then I do not know you even while this be the thirteenth autumn that you haunt my steps?" she demanded.

"You know as you choose to know, my Lady," his simply complex reply supplied.

She was taken aback.

"All that I... have _ever_ done... has been with the greatest intent," he mumbled, his dark eyelids drooping.

"Many of the most devastating events have been brought upon the history of this world with the greatest intent in mind, Gríma," she growled, turning away from him.

"You... You speak my name." He had never once heard her waste a precious puff of her breath to utter his birth name. His scarred heart fluttered.

"...I may speak it. As one... sometimes does." She drew her arms around her chest beneath the furs, scolding herself for offering such a poor excuse in her rebuttal.

"I welcome it," he whispered almost inaudibly, just as a friendly snake would.

* * *

Éowyn did not know how long she had slept, nor the hour when she had drifted off. The fire was long dead, the soot that blackened the mouth of the hearth making it seem abyssal. A wave of goosebumps traveled over her arms, even through the thick animal pelts covering her. With slight shiver, she stood from the warmth of her bed.

The floor onto which she stepped could have very well been frozen lake's ice film. She knelt fluidly, gathering needed tinder to place upon the stack of dried wood she had mounted inside of the fire pit. Luck was on her side; she struck the spark-stone once before the tinder caught blaze. Pulling her sheer cape about her, she curled up close to the fire, basking in the heat and light.

Out of nowhere, the weight of a thick pelt blanket being draped, ever timely, over her body. She rouses, spying Gríma attempting to stealth back into bed unnoticed.

"You are awake?" she inquired in a hushed tone.

He stops turning to her. "I have never slept, my Éowyn. I apologize; I did not intend to stir you."

"You did not stir me. It was the chill of the night." She paused, laying herself back down. She could sense him behind her, and against her better judgment, she spoke in a tone weighted by sleep, "You would accompany me?"

Gríma, his thoughts handicapped if only for a moment by his bewilderment, hesitated no further to slip next to her, not wanting to forsake a chance that she had so graciously given him. He splashed his dark cloak over them, his fingers tingling.

Éowyn exhaled peacefully, already back in dreams, courtesy of the added cloak's warmth.

Gingerly, the Wormtongue slid his arm over the smooth flat of her stomach, curling his fingers around her other hip to press himself close to her. His jaw resting comfortably in the nook of her shoulder and, inhaling, he was still able to detect the faintest scent of honeysuckle wafting from her hair.

Éowyn, deep in slumber, shifted, rolling her back to the fire. Her angelic face was but inches from the Worm's. His hand, resting then on the curve of her lower spine due to her adjustment, was but a finger's length from her succulent backside.

Though his digits burned with the desire to lay hand within that area of forbidden bodily territory, he suppressed his devilry, exhaling violently. He closed his purple, sleepless lids, resting his forehead against hers. He grinned inwardly, gently, to himself, feeling all of his ill emotions dissolve by the touch of his goddess.

* * *

_Éowyn woke abruptly, nose to nose with the pale man that she scathingly called her own. The space between them had tapered into nothingness during some point in the night, she noted. She could feel his arms wrapped possessively around her mid-section, his black cloak wrapping them close together._

_She extracted herself with great care from the cocoon, proud with her success of not waking him. She ordered her servants to act without sound, unless they would prefer to have him woken and hovering about them while she was readying herself for the day. She smiled when her reply was a group of expressions aghast at the idea, being escorted then to bathe by Éobeta. _

_The steam of the hot bath subsiding after her lengthy soak, she dried herself and stood while Éobeta dressed her in her wedding gown. Éowyn questioned this, why she was to be adorned with the outfit of the day previous. She received no proper reply, yet did not force the issue. Once dressed, she sent Éobeta to wake Gríma in her place._

_To her, it felt as though it had been half of the day, when in truth it was but an hour that passed. In her anxiety, Éowyn began to rap her fingertips upon the armrest of the throne that was then hers._

_Éobeta makes her appearance before the golden haired matriarch at long last, curtsying with a look of dread._

"_What has stalled your reappearance, Éobeta? Where is my Lord?" Éowyn inquired, growing restless. She did not desire Gríma's presence at her side, however her day of rule could not begin without his presence, as per tradition._

_The servant girl flushed, bowing ever lower. "I... I apologize, my Lady. I... I felt that it was not my place to rouse my Lord. He still sleeps upon the floor," she answered meekly, unable to face her overseer._

_A sigh weighted with resentment and understanding ushered from her lips. Following it, Éowyn stood from her throne, fluidly walking from the mouth of the hall into the bedchamber from whence she had emerged. She spied him almost instantly; she was convinced that even a blind woman would be able to notice the stark black, man-shaped mound heaving quietly upon the floor. She spoke harshly to him from the doorway, demanding his presence at her side so that she might begin her day._

_He did not show any sign of rousing, and so she crept closer in quick step of her irritation. She knelt beside him, staring for a moment before laying a firm hand upon a shoulder that was tightly wrapped in thick fur. She shook him gently in the beginning, attempting a more feminine approach; to coax him from sleep, as she might a younger child. Her patience wearing thin, she regained her stance, glaring down at him. She thought to give him a swift kick, but decided against it._

_With a flash of her arm, she had ripped the tangled cloak from his sound body, only to shriek briefly. _

_Where should have been a man lay a beast; a warg, its coat of sick, black tar, leaped at her with a stone-jostling call. She was pinned down, made helpless. The cries that escaped her lips were thrown at deaf ears; no aid came running._

_The warg thrust its weight upon her, shattering her legs and her arms. It threw back its ugly head, lunging then to sink its dagger-like teeth, stained yellow with past blood, deep into her soft middle. It ripped from her the flesh that would be her womb, leaving a gaping hole in its stead. The blood ran crimson, over her white dress, over the gray soot, over her porcelain hands that grasped her broken body. _

_She did not know who she was to emit the wails that she did. She managed to draw her legs to her midriff, screaming as though she, herself, had just been born. Her golden spiraled locks stuck to her bloodied face, and her entire body became increasingly hot. She couldn't feel herself breathing any longer, and her throat had long gone numb._

_She knew that she was dying, that she was to disappear. Through her eyes, blurred by acidic tears, she looked upon her attacker with dying pain. It was then that her world went silent; her cries seemed to be eaten by the air, and her wounds burned more than ever then._

_She looked upon Gríma standing over her, his hands poised in painful arches, his grey face stained red with her blood. His sick, tarry black hair hung wild around his face, which was contorted by fear, grief, wonder. He looked so much older there, his eyes without their unnerving glimmer. They had become dull blue; a lifeless sky within sky. His fingers, curled menacingly at his sides, glistening with blood, lifted in a fluid motion to reach out to her, his pained eyes beholding her as she swayed in place, her eyes fluttering dangerously._

"_Gri-"_

* * *

Her back stung when she ripped herself from the moistened furs, her entire body drenched in a clammy sweat. From her pale lips erupted a scream; brief and violent, like the sound of a breaking bone in silence. Her brow, moist yet fevered, wrinkled as her panicked eyes jerked from one place to another in the darkness. In her ears, the sick thumping of her heart drowned out her loud, gasping breaths. She swung her feet from beneath the furs, standing shakily from her bed. She pulled her wild locks that clung to her damp neck away with a trembling hand.

From the corner of her eye, she could see the faint glimmer of a candle's light moving down the corridor beneath the frame of the door. With weary caution, she ventured from the door frame at which she had come to stand, her feet dragging themselves against the rougher hallway stones as though she were in a trance while she followed the source of the light.

* * *

Gríma's grip on the candle holder tightened. He walked in a timely manner toward his previous chambers, the dank hole in which he made his abode. He longed for the chilled air that greeted his pallid flesh upon pushing open the door that seemed to weigh twice as much as himself.

His arms still tingled from lifting Éowyn from the floor; he had woken sometime in the night to find her twisting violently in his grasp. He deemed her to be uncomfortable, but the mutterings of her small, incoherent voice unveiled to him that she suffered from a _mental_ discomfort; a nightmare. Hoping to disperse her mental plague, he took her into his arms and nestled her among the downy furs atop their bed, deciding to leave her there to sleep in peace afterward, though he had to pry himself away from her side. He reasoned that she would awaken the following morning in a more amiable mood if she believed their union to be a dream.

He drew nearer to his previous nook in the Hall, his mind lost in the nostalgic feeling of returning to the room in the dark of night as he used to do after a lengthy day of tracking his beloved's every step. His pale hand emerged from the thick sleeve of his robe to grasp the iron ring that allowed him entry, but he paused, his actions frozen.

He could hear the soft dragging of linens behind him, approaching from his right. He whipped himself around, shining candle light upon his pursuer, his dagger's edge gleaming ominously in the paling light.

His expression of feigned hostility fell when his gaze landed on the contracted pupils of the wide, reddened eyes of his goddess. His dagger seemed to gain the weight of an Oliphont as it fell from his loose grip, landing with a resonant _clank_ against the stone floor. He lurched forward, catching his fair lady when she stumbled forward into his arms, her skin damp and riddled with goosebumps. He became still then, lifeless, if for a moment while the thought settled into his mind; his beloved, cherished Éowyn had sought him of her own accord, and she did not scold him, beat him or chastise him. He felt her, taking in her vulnerability, how she trembled against him. He took his bare hand that had brandished the dagger and pulled her into him, closely, protectively.

"Éowyn, my Éowyn, what drives you from slumber and bed?" he inquired of her, leaning his jaw against her locks to inhale the salty-sweet scent of her hair.

She did not speak, her fingernails biting though the thick cloak upon his back.

"My mind is plagued by terrors of the night..." she murmured, her voice heavy with the discomfort of her own fear. She suddenly jerked herself from him, holding his at arms length to stare at him with haunted eyes. "Why do you abandon me? For what reason of more importance than I do you stalk the shadows?"

Her tone was acidic, yet weary, and unbecoming of her usual tone of voice that she took with him. The disturbed expression that veiled her beautiful visage fell into one of astonished hurt when Gríma's lips opened and closed, speechless. At last, he lowered to his knees, making small kisses upon her clammy palms.

"My Lady, my Éowyn, forgive this foolish creature. I left your side merely to fetch you a draught from my stores... I thought to cure your night terror," he lied swiftly, though it was partly in truth.

She stood above him, the free zephyrs that raced through the drafty corridors and ruffled the loose fabric of her gown being the only indication that she hadn't been rendered to stone. Silent she was and, as ever, not so easily convinced.

"What gave you knowledge of my nightmares? Did you peer into my mind with your dark magic and sick desires?" she hissed lusciously, lowly.

His eyes, luminescent before the candlelight, implored her. "You fought invisible enemies. I did place you upon the bed in hopes of consoling you, but you would not have it."

She did not know why such a trivial thing upset her so. At any other moment, she would find herself jubilant if only to be rid of his shadow encroaching on her steps, yet there she stood before him, a-tremble with confusion, disturbed by her own thoughts.

"I... am haunted by you... even whilst I dream," she murmured to him, her voice a chilled wind through a hollow tree.

Gríma was slow to rise, his eyes never leaving her pallid visage. His hairless brow wrinkled in silent surprise, his piercing eyes agape at the expression of hopelessness that made residence in her cold, cold eyes.

"You... have dreamed of me, my Lady?"

Her stare was dead. "Only within my horrors of the night," she whispered.

Gríma's stare softened considerably. He knew it could not be as something pleasant that she thought of him in sleep. He drew himself aside, holding out his hand in gesture. "I will take my Lady back to her quarters, if she does so wish it," he said to her, hoping to be of some comfort.

Éowyn's eyes traveled from the light of his candle to the palm of his hand. Her mind, at length, went blank. "You shall not leave the bedside again during my sleep, not after you have stalked my dreams and steps so freely. ...I forbid it," she uttered at last. She drew a hand to her throat suddenly, having realized what she had commanded. Her eyes whipped briefly to his pale face for a moment, judging his reaction to her decree.

She was so... so haunted. What sort of dream, be it a nightmare or of pleasantry, could render her so? He had never yet seen her so weighted on the mind by any one thing. He had to steady his raging heart, wipe his perspiring palms surreptitiously on the long trails of his cloak as he digested what she had demanded of him: _do not leave my side_, she had said, in simplest form. He inclined his head, tendrils of greased waves framing his eyes which begged something of her.

"My Éowyn," he asked, his voice riding on an exhaled breath, "what dream is it that has wrought such an expression in your eyes, on your fair, fair face?" He stepped close to her, cupping the side of her face as he had twice before, his skin crawling in ecstasy as her eyes threatened to close and her rose petal lips to quiver. "What dream is it that makes you ban me from leaving your sight when I know of no such golden, celestial creature who detests me so?"

His words were maggots eating into her defenses, weakening her, molding her slowly, visibly, into a woman of his innermost desires. Yet, he would only lust for her when she refused him... She felt that hand astride her cheek, those cold fingers that wrote each word that would tear her family apart for decades. Yet, those worn fingernails that grazed against her flesh as the fingers traversed to her neck, her collarbone, those fingernails that were stained purple with the ink of a scribe and the dark acts they had committed... they brought such comfort to her. Such unwanted, unthinkable comfort.

She opened her mouth to speak, though the voice sleeping within her throat bore no volume, as only a hushed breath escaped before she found her world hazing over. Her lips collided gently, shyly with those of the creature, nay, the _man_ whose birth she had so long cursed. Her cheeks rose in color to a timely flush, a virgin pink. She inhaled smoothly, sharply, as those same grey lips kissed at the elegant length of her neck, tasting the flesh they had so longed to taste. Her hands massaged the back of his head, imploring Gríma to continue his search for whatever it was that he desired. She could feel the absolute horror of her nightmare melting into nothingness as her mind was surrendered to her vulnerable longing.

Éowyn couldn't understand why she was allowing Gríma, the Wormtongue, to fondle her so. She couldn't understand why her arms didn't push him, why her hands didn't bruise him, why her legs didn't carry her away from him. She didn't dare understand what drove her to encourage him, for she feared that if she did attempt to comprehend even a small amount of the mysterious force that controlled her, that it would somehow destroy her very being. Instead, she succumbed, her mind already weakened enough by Gríma's words alone to allow any sort of retaliation.

Éowyn had passed the point of any possible return.

Gríma's body shuddered in a manner so sublime that one would think he had merely breathed in too much air when he discovered that his Lady, his Éowyn, did not reject him. Somewhere deep within his subconscious, he would find disappointment in her lack of poisonous quips and violent acts against him. Somewhere, but not there in the tips of his fingers, not there at the juncture of his thighs. He pressed against her, finding his touches more welcome to her than he could have ever imagined in his most vivid of fantasies. He returned from the silky skin of her neck to the moist comfort of her virgin lips, exploring the unique taste of her mouth with his tongue. He felt relief and sorrow when she did not move to snap at the oral organ, attempting to sever the vile thing that had sewn so many lies.

Hands drifted fluidly over linens of all textures, discarding this and unbuttoning that. Materials that were coveted by many and bestowed upon one were forgotten, laying in mingled heaps where they fell upon the chilled corridor floor. Elvish silks and Dwarven wools, the finest of textiles to be worn by kings, were left to collect dust in some obscure corner. Even an off-white, horribly stained handkerchief, whose frayed lace edges had been dabbed many a time against the corners of the grayest of lips, drifted daintily to the ground, forgotten.

Gríma's lips closed around the hollow of her collarbone, his hands grasping at her thin under-dress, aching to remove it. He could find fuel in nothing save for the soft gasps erupting from her trembling chest, her fingers arched and splayed across his shoulders.

Éowyn , closed her eyes and slid to the floor, the smooth marble bringing an unwelcome numbness to her milky skin.

Gríma sat atop her, feasting with gluttonous eyes upon her heaving breasts. At long last, having toyed with her enough, he grabbed for his dagger that lay momentarily discarded beneath his cloak, dragging the poison-filled tip down from the chalice-shaped breastline of his lady's slip, cutting the intricately woven fabric.

The chill of the Mordorian blade millimeters away from her most tender flesh of breast and belly rendered a shudder of pleasure from her depths that she had not foreseen.

Gríma lay his blade aside, marveling at the expanse of her flat abdomen. He watched as goose pimples rose from nowhere, summoned by the frigid airs around them. He lowered himself to her, mouthing at her sweet skin. His hands kneaded at her breasts; firm and smaller they were, like the first adolescent peaches to come to fruition in the summertime.

Éowyn's breath all but rushed from between her rose-petal lips when the moist warmth of his mouth enclosed around hardened nipple. She instinctively lifted her hips to meet with his, wrapping her legs around his waist, the hem of her slip sliding from her writhing body, exposing her in her entirety.

Gríma trailed a finger from the tip of the unoccupied breast to the juncture of her thighs, massaging the ridge of her womanhood as he would the muzzle of an anxious steed.

Éowyn's eyes were immediately agape with the touch, a quick, lasting sound of surprise and unadulterated pleasure issuing from her core. She ground her hips against his digit, her body reacting shamelessly in its longing. Her lower lip became the anchor to her consciousness, her upper teeth slicing into the luscious skin.

The Wormtongue suckled at her breast as though he were an infant, his hairless brow knitting as a rush of memories from his boyhood surfaced. In desperation to forget the long suppressed details of his youth, he trailed his tongue from the breast he so possessively handled down the flawless curve of her palpitating chest until he reached her firm, marble-esque abdomen. He planted small kisses upon her navel, illiciting the smallest of sounds from Éowyn. Gríma continued to massage the moist cavern of her femininity, at long last daring to extend his middle digit to coax at the entrance to her innermost womanhood.

Éowyn groped for his head, which nuzzled at her navel in a trance-like manner. She cupped his visage, bringing those eternally frozen eyes to meet hers.

He thought that she had never looked so beautiful as she did then, her cheeks and forehead flushed with the heat of her passion. Her eyes were clouded with some unnamed element, one that he could only interpret to be the rare and coveted expression of pleasure.

"Gri...ma..." she whispered on a stammering breath, her lips clashing with his as her touch, a slow, meaningful stroke from the hands of a despairing lady whose palms had only known the gilded hilt of her sword and the fragile stems of _simbelmyn__ë _flowers, released the toggle of his leather trousers. Her kisses became more chaste, her lips dancing along his jawline while her palms slid beneath the black vest, under the netted long-sleeve shirt, pawing at his undefined stomach. She relished the feel of his under-developed abdominal muscles, her fingertips gliding upward to press against his chest. She exhaled against his mouth as she felt it, his heart, pounding against her palms.

'The beast demands to be unchained,' she mused to herself, impassioned. Éowyn slid her hand down his chest, noting how it seemed to cave in ever so slightly at the center of his ribcage. She made to trail down his stomach, though as she placed her palm flat against his core, she pushed, finding herself atop him. She pinned his wrists down, staring into his horror-struck, naked eyes calmly. She planted the softest of her kisses yet upon his thin lips, pausing for a moment before drawing herself erect.

Gríma's eyes, so used to the darkness of those frigid halls that she who had mounted him might have been bathed in sunlight, beheld her there, above him, the goddess that he knew that she was. Her hair, two raging waterfalls of golden curls, covered her ample breasts. Her skin, paler and fairer than the purest of the moonlight, contrasted against him so that she seemed to shine with some ethereal light, while he became only grayer in comparison.

He trembled beneath her lips as she dragged them sensually from his own, placing them but a breath away from his ear. There, she exhaled, feeling his body tense beneath her. She brought her hand to his opposite cheek, feeling him press further into her touch. Éowyn calmed herself, her heartbeat slowed to nearly nothing. She could feel Gríma's smoldering longing, his greed for her against her womanhood, as she had released his member from the confines that it had strained against.

It was her virginity, the essence of the White Lady of Meduseld, that beckoned to him. It was her chastity that teased him. It was her way and practice of avoiding his advances for so long that bound his feet to her shadow; Éowyn brought her lips to rest against his earlobe, reveled in the feeling of her purity for a moment more, and whispered with heated breath to him the two words that would reap it from her:

"_Giefan__ ánnes_."*

A single upward thrust; an instance of a pain unthinkable; a numbing, sizzling fire. Éowyn's breath hitched in her throat, the nearly inaudible sound resonating within Gríma's mind. Éowyn's eyes, once a shade of silver so frigid, closed themselves to the world around her, melted.

She did nothing when she was once again lowered to the ground, the cool, flat stones a welcome sensation to her aching body. She opened her eyes slowly, Gríma's face inches from her own. She arched her neck, her hands brushing over the segments of his spine as he buried his face in her shoulder. Éowyn, in a timely manner, eased her lower half upward to meet the prominent ridges of his hipbones. She wrapped her legs around his waist, inhaling sharply as he began his rhythm.

Gríma's mind was dazed. Every thrust he gave, a cry, short, melodious, was wrought from her lips. He quickened, she followed. He relented, she sighed. His lips made innumerable trails over her lips, her neck, her shoulders...

"Éowyn... My Éowyn..."

Gríma's breaths, heavy and impassioned, echoed within her mind as time seemed to drag slower and slower. Each time that he pushed himself deeper within her, a newer wave of pleasure once foreign to her would drown her senses, rendering her immobile save for the nearly mechanical movement of her hips adjoining to his. Her lithe form felt as though it were aflame, her golden waves fanned about her and matted with moisture. She pulled him tightly against her, her breaths labored and quaking with a passion that she had never thought she would know. Her fingers found themselves tangled in his hair, crushing his lips against her own desperately, her short, high-pitched whimpers vibrating in his mouth.

Gríma fisted her well-toned thigh, hoisting her leg higher against his hip. His core burned with his insufferable lust, a lust that he never thought to be quenched. He rode her viciously, finding himself pounding into her body as deeply as her biological structure would allow. He released all of the years he had spent under her scornful gaze, under her verbal sword, under her spell that rendered her untouchable. He unchained his hatred of her spiteful words, his sorrow from her bruising hatred of himself. He made free his long restrained desires, his uncharted fantasies; oh, how he had pined for her! How he had coveted those who knew her touch, who knew her kind words, her kind looks. How he had suffered and brought suffering to himself, and only on her behalf. How he had considered ending it all if not for the promise of another day in which he could let his gaze wander to her golden, celestial image...

How he hated her. How he hated her for making him love her. How he hated her for making him love her, and how he hated her for not even having to try. How he loved her. He loved her. Oh, how he loved her.

Beads of sweat flew from the ends of his hair as he brought himself to connect with her a final time. His face, paler than the underbelly of a toad, though just as moist, froze with an expression of pained intoxication. His eyes, agape, and the bluest of blues, bore into her own, his pupils dilated; it was as though he had been gutted from behind, yet amidst his surprised horror was the most piercing feeling of weightlessness...

Éowyn's eyes stared beyond the luminescent blue of Gríma's gaze, her lips parted and a-tremble. Her eyebrows, once arched in penultimate pleasure, lowered with the exhaling of the breath she was unaware that she had held. She lay beneath him, the man she had hated since the moment he had allowed her name to slip past his serpentine, grey, silken lips, her body in perfect parallel to his own. She gave a single spasm, her innermost womanhood aflame with her ardor, as his seed poured into her.

"_Gríma_..." His name from her lips, whispered upon the open air.

She grasped at his back, slick with sweat. Her eyes closed, her lips parted. Breathing; labored, shaking. Skin; flushed, bruised. Hair; matted, clinging.

"Éowyn..."

Gríma brushed his thumb across her pink lips, lips that had uttered his name, lips that shook with each breath that was taken. He lowered himself, his gaze locked with hers, nearing her succulent mouth, only to place a final kiss upon her forehead. He cherished the taste of her sweat upon his tongue.

Éowyn forced her eyes to remain open, though her mind and body pleaded for rest. The feeling of empowerment, satisfaction, and an element that could not be named coursed through her body. She searched Gríma's eyes, cloudless blue skies of the summertime, for an answer that she did not know she wanted.

Her breathing, deep yet steady, was coupled with his own. The floor beneath them, regardless of their heated love-making, remained colder than ever; a delight to the muscles that screamed within the both of them. The sultry fluff of Gríma's cloak was a welcome friend to Éowyn's body. She allowed her eyelids to compromise her vision, her arms tucked against her chest as Gríma's chin rested atop her head.

"Mm... My Éowyn..."

The ever-so-slight upward curve of Éowyn's lips was unsuppressed as she heard her name slip off of that infamous tongue before her conscious mind delved into the black abyss of a dreamless slumber.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

*_Giefan__ ánnes- _Old English (or what I thought would be used as an equivalent to Rohirric language), roughly translated to mean "Give unity"; Éowyn is giving Gríma her permission to consummate their marriage.

_Simbelmyn__ë_ - the regional, white flower which is said to grow upon the burial places of many an honored soldier and branch of royal blood. It resembles a botanical crossing of a traditional daisy and a white pansy.

So. Hey there, guys. I have _absolutely_ no excuse as to why this story has been on hiatus for so long. I've decided that this chapter, if not another more appropriate, did _not_ need to remain unpublished any longer. That was the worst cliffhanger I've ever left my reader(s) before. There you have it: pure, uncensored lemon, Griowyn edition. I hope that is sufficient collateral for my absence. :\

Let me know if you spot something odd, incorrect, or anything else. I'll be happy to explain/correct anything you inquire about. Thank you for reading (and not giving up on me)! PS: This ain't over yet.


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